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OF  CALIF.  LIBRABY,  IOS  ANGELES 


THE  SWINDLER 

AND  OTHER  STORIES 


BY 

ETHEL  M.  DELL 

AUTHOR  OF 
THE  HUNDREDTH  CHANCE,  ETC. 


GROSSET    &     DUNLAP 

PUBLISHERS  NEW    YORK 


The  stories  contained  in  this  volume  were  originally  published 
in  the  Red  Magazine. 


The  Way  of  an  Eagle  *^  The  Hundredth  Chance 

The  Knave  of  Diamonds  The  Safety  Curtain 

The  Rocks  of  Valpre  ~  Greatheart 

The  Swindler   —  The  Lamp  in  the  Desert 

The  Keeper  of  the  Door  The  Tidal  Wave 

Bars  of  Iron  The  Top  of  the  World 


This  edition  is  issued  under  arrangement  with  the  publishers 
G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS,  NEW  YORK  AND  LONDON 

Ube  Knickerbocker  press,  flew  Kerb 


CONTENTS 


THE  SWINDLER 

THE  SWINDLER'S  HANDICAP 

THE  NONENTITY 

HER  HERO 

THE  EXAMPLE  . 

THE  FRIEND  WHO  STOOD  BY 

THE  RIGHT  MAN 

THE  KNIGHT-ERRANT 

A  QUESTION  OF  TRUST 

WHERE  THE  HEART  Is 


in 

2128847 


The  Swindler,  and  Other 
Stories 


The  Swindler 


"  \  \  THEN  you  come  to  reflect  that  there  are 

*  »  only  a  few  planks  between  you  and  the 
bottom  of  the  Atlantic  Ocean,  it  makes  you  feel 
sort  of  pensive." 

"I  beg  your  pardon?" 

The  stranger,  smoking  his  cigarette  in  the  lee 
of  the  deck-cabins,  turned  his  head  sharply  in  the 
direction  of  the  voice.  He  encountered  the  wide, 
unembarrassed  gaze  of  a  girl's  grey  eyes.  She 
had  evidently  just  come  up  on  deck. 

"I  beg  yours,"  she  rejoined  composedly.  "I 
thought  at  first  you  were  some  one  else." 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  turned  away. 
Quite  obviously  he  was  not  disposed  to  be  sociable 
upon  so  slender  an  introduction. 

The  girl,  however,  made  no  move  to  retreat. 
She  stood  thoughtfully  tapping  on  the  boards 
with  the  point  of  her  shoe. 

"Were  you  playing  cards  last  night  down  in  the 
saloon?"  she  asked  presently. 

*'I  was  looking  on." 

x 


2  The  Swindler 

He  threw  the  words  over  his  shoulder,  not 
troubling  to  turn. 

The  girl  shivered.  The  morning  air  was  damp 
and  chill. 

"You  do  a  good  deal  of  that,  Mr. — Mr. — " 
She  paused  suggestively. 

But  the  man  would  not  fill  in  the  blank.  He 
smoked  on  in  silence. 

The  vessel  was  rolling  somewhat  heavily,  and 
the  splash  of  the  drifting  foam  reached  them 
occasionally  where  they  stood.  There  were  no 
other  ladies  in  sight.  Suddenly  the  clear,  Ameri- 
can voice  broke  through  the  man's  barrier  of 
silence. 

"I  know  quite  well  what  you  are,  you  know. 
You  may  just  as  well  tell  me  your  name  as  leave 
me  to  find  it  out  for  myself." 

He  looked  at  her  then  for  the  first  time,  keenly, 
even  critically.  His  clean-shaven  mouth  wore  a 
very  curious  expression. 

"My  name  is  West,"  he  said,  after  a  moment. 

She  nodded  briskly. 

"Your  professional  name,  I  suppose.  You  are  a 
professional,  of  course?" 

His  eyes  continued  to  watch  her  narrowly. 
They  were  blue  eyes,  piercingly,  icily  blue. 

"Why  'of  course,'  if  one  may  ask?" 

She  laughed  a  light,  sweet  laugh,  inexpressibly 
gay.  Cynthia  Mortimer  could  be  charmingly 
inconsequent  when  she  chose. 

"I  don't  think  you  are  a  bit  clever,  you  know, " 


The  Swindler  3 

she  said.  "I  knew  what  you  were  directly  I  saw 
you  standing  by  the  gangway  watching  the  people 
coining  on  board.  You  looked  really  professional 
then,  just  as  if  you  didn't  care  a  red  cent  whether 
you  caught  your  man  or  not.  I  knew  you  did 
care  though,  and  I  was  ready  to  dance  when  I 
knew  you  hadn't  got  him.  Think  you'll  track 
him  down  on  our  side?" 

West  turned  his  eyes  once  more  upon  the  heav- 
ing, grey  water,  carelessly  flicking  the  ash  from  his 
cigarette. 

"  I  don't  think, "  he  said  briefly.     "  I  know." 

"You — know?"  The  wide  eyes  opened  wider, 
but  they  gathered  no  information  from  the  unre- 
sponsive profile  that  smoked  the  cigarette.  "You 
know  where  Mr.  Nat  Verney  is?"  she  breathed, 
almost  in  a  whisper.  "You  don't  say!  Then — 
then  you  weren't  really  watching  out  for  him  at 
the  gangway?" 

He  jerked  up  his  head  with  an  enigmatical  laugh. 

"My  methods  are  not  so  simple  as  that,"  he 
said. 

Cynthia  joined  quite  generously  in  his  laugh, 
notwithstanding  its  hard  note  of  ridicule.  She 
had  become  keenly  interested  in  this  man,  in 
spite  of — possibly  in  consequence  of — the  rebuffs 
he  so  unsparingly  administered.  She  was  not  ac- 
customed to  rebuffs,  this  girl  with  her  delicate, 
flower-like  beauty.  They  held  for  her  something 
of  the  charm  of  novelty,  and  abashed  her  not  at 
all. 


4  The  Swindler 

"And  you  really  think  you'll  catch  him?"  she 
questioned,  a  note  of  honest  regret  in  her  voice. 

"Don't  you  want  him  to  be  caught?" 

He  pitched  his  cigarette  overboard  and  turned 
to  her  with  less  of  churlishness  in  his  bearing. 

She  met  his  eyes  quite  frankly. 

"I  should  just  love  him  to  get  away,"  she  de- 
clared, with  kindling  eyes.  "Oh,  I  know  he's  a 
regular  sharper,  and  he's  swindled  heaps  of  people 
— I'm  one  of  them,  so  I  know  a  little  about  it. 
He  swindled  me  out  of  five  hundred  dollars,  and 
I  can  tell  you  I  was  mad  at  first.  But  now  that 
he  is  flying  from  justice,  I'm  game  enough  to  want 
him  to  get  away.  I  suppose  my  sympathies 
generally  lie  with  the  hare,  Mr.  West.  I'm  sorry 
if  it  annoys  you,  but  I  was  created  that  way." 

West  was  frowning,  but  he  smiled  with  some 
cynicism  over  her  last  remarks. 

"Besides,"  she  continued,  "I  couldn't  help 
admiring  him.  He  has  a  regular  genius  for 
swindling — that  man.  You'll  agree  with  me 
there?" 

A  sudden  heavy  roll  of  the  vessel  pitched  her 
forward  before  he  could  reply.  He  caught  her 
round  the  waist,  saving  her  from  a  headlong  fall, 
and  she  clung  to  him,  laughing  like  a  child  at  the 
mishap. 

"I  think  I'll  have  to  go  below,"  she  decided 
regretfully.  "But  you've  been  good  to  me,  and 
I'm  glad  I  spoke.  I've  always  been  somewhat 
prejudiced  against  detectives  till  to-day.  My 


The  Swindler  5 

cousin  Archie — you  saw  him  in  the  cardroom  last 
night — vowed  you  were  nothing  half  so  interesting. 
Why  is  it,  I  wonder,  that  detectives  always  look 
like  journalists?"  She  looked  at  him  with  eyes 
of  friendly  criticism.  "You  didn't  deceive  me, 
you  see.  But  then" — ingenuously — "I'm  clever 
in  some  ways,  much  more  clever  than  you'd  think. 
Now  you  won't  cut  me  next  time  we  meet,  will 
you?  Because — perhaps — I'm  going  to  ask  you  to 
do  something  for  me." 

"What  do  you  want  me  to  do?" 

The  man's  voice  was  hard,  his  eyes  cold  as 
steel,  but  his  question  had  in  it  a  shade — just  a 
shade — of  something  warmer  than  mere  curiosity. 

She  took  him  into  her  confidence  without  an 
instant's  hesitation. 

"My  cousin  Archie — you  may  have  noticed — 
you  were  looking  on  last  night — he's  a  very  care- 
less player,  and  headstrong  too.  But  he  can't 
afford  to  lose  any,  and  I  don't  want  him  to 
come  to  grief.  You  see,  I'm  rather  fond  of 
him." 

"Well?" 

The  man's  brows  were  drawn  down  over  his 
eyes.  .  His  expression  was  not  encouraging. 

"Well,"  she  proceeded,  undismayed,  "I  saw  you 
looking  on,  and  you  looked  as  if  you  knew  a  few 
things.  So  I  thought  you'd  be  a  safe  person  to 
ask.  I  can't  look  after  him;  and  his  mother — 
well,  she's  worse  than  useless.  But  a  man — a 
real  strong  man  like  you — is  different.  If  I  were 


6  The  Swindler 

to  introduce  yc'  ,  couldn't  you.  look  after  him  a 
bit — just  till  we  get  across?" 

With  much  simplicity  she  made  her  request,  but 
there  was  a  tinge  of  anxiety  in  her  eyes.  Certainly 
West,  staring  steadily  forth  ovrr  the  grey  waste  of 
tumbling  waters,  looked  sufficiently  forbidding. 

After  several  seconds  of  silence  he  flung  an 
abrupt  question : 

"Why  don't  you  ask  some  one  else?" 

"There  is  no  one  else, "  she  answered. 

"No  one  else?"  He  made  a  gesture  of  im- 
patient incredulity. 

"No  one  that  I  can  trust,"  she  explained. 

"And  you  trust  me?" 

"Of  course  I  do." 

"Why?"  Again  he  looked  at  her  with  a  pierc- 
ing scrutiny.  His  eyes  held  a  savage,  almost  a 
threatening  expression. 

But  the  girl  only  laughed,  lightly  and  confi- 
dently. 

"Why?  Oh,  just  because  you  are  trustworthy, 
I  guess.  I  can't  think  of  any  other  reason." 

West's  look  relaxed,  became  abstracted,  and 
finally  fell  away  from  her. 

"You  appear  to  be  a  lady  of  some  discernment, " 
he  observed  drily. 

She  proffered  her  hand  impulsively,  her  eyes 
dancing. 

"My,  that's  the  first  pretty  thing  you've  said 
to  me!"  she  declared  flippantly.  "I  just  like  you, 
Mr.  West!" 


The  Swindler  7 

West  was  feeling  for  his  cigarette  case.  He 
gave  her  his  hand  without  looking  at  her,  as  if  her 
approbation  did  not  greatly  gratify  him.  When 
she  was  gone  he  moved  away  along  the  wind- 
swept deck  with  his  collar  up  to  his  ears  and  his 
head  bent  to  the  gale.  His  conversation  with 
the  American  girl  had  not  apparently  made  him 
feel  any  more  sociably  inclined  towards  his  fellow- 
passengers. 

•        •        •        •        •        •        • 

Certainly,  as  Cynthia  had  declared,  young 
Archibald  Bathurst  was  an  exceedingly  reckless 
player.  He  lacked  the  judgment  and  the  cool 
brain  essential  to  a  good  cardplayer,  with  the 
result  that  he  lost  much  m^r-  often  than  he  won. 
But  notwithstanding  this  fact  he  had  a  passion 
for  cards  which  no  amount  of  defeat  could  abate — 
a  passion  which  he  never  failed  to  indulge  when- 
ever an  opportunity  presented  itself. 

At  the  very  moment  when  his  cousin  was  making 
her  petition  on  his  behalf  to  the  sur1y  Englishman 
on  deck,  he  was  seated  in  the  saloon  with  three  or 
four  men  older  than  himself,  playing  and  losing, 
playing  and  losing,  with  almost  unvarying  ir- mo- 
tony,  yet  with  a  feverish  relish  that  had  in  it 
something  tragic. 

He  was  only  three-and-twenty,  and,  as  he  was 
wont  to  remark,  ill-luck  dogged  him  persistently 
at  every  turn.  He  never  blamed  himself  when 
rash  speculations  failed,  and  he  never  profited  by 
bitter  experience.  Simply,  he  was  by  nature  a 


8  The  Swindler 

spendthrift,  high-spirited,  impulsive,  weak,  with 
little  thought  for  the  future  and  none  at  all  for 
the  past.  Wherever  he  went  he  was  popular. 
His  gaiety  and  spontaneity  won  him  favour.  But 
no  one  took  him  very  seriously.  No  one  ever 
dreamed  that  his  ill-luck  was  a  cause  for  anything 
but  mirth. 

A  good  deal  of  money  had  changed  hands  when 
the  party  separated  to  dine,  but,  though  young 
Bathurst  was  as  usual  a  loser,  he  displayed  no 
depression.  Only,  as  he  sauntered  away  to  his 
cabin,  he  flung  a  laughing  challenge  to  those  who 
remained: 

"See  if  1  don't  turn  the  tables  presently!" 

They  laughed  with  him,  pursuing  him  with 
chaff  till  he  was  out  of  hearing.  The  boy  was  a 
game  youngster,  and  he  knew  how  to  lose.  More- 
over, it  was  generally  believed  that  he  could  afford 
to  pay  for  his  pleasures. 

But  a  man  who  met  him  suddenly  outside  his 
cabin  read  sorr^thing  other  than  indifference  upon 
his  flushed  face.  He  only  saw  him  for  an  instant. 
The  next,  Archie  had  swung  past  and  was  gone,  a 
darling  door  shutting  him  from  sight. 

When  the  little  knot  of  cardplayers  reassembled 
after  dinner  their  number  was  augmented.  A 
short,  broad-shouldered  man,  clean-shaven,  with 
piercing  blue  eyes,  had  scraped  acquaintance  with 
one  of  them,  and  had  accepted  an  invitation  to 
join  the  play.  Some  surprise  was  felt  among  the 
rest,  for  this  man  had  till  then  been  disposed  to 


The  Swindler  9 

hold  aloof  from  his  fellow-passengers,  preferring 
a  solitary  cigarette  to  any  amusements  that 
might  be  going  forward. 

A  New  York  man  named  Rudd  muttered  to  his 
neighbour  that  the  fellow  might  be  all  right,  but 
he  had  the  eyes  of  a  sharper.  The  neighbour  in 
response  murmured  the  words  "private  detective" 
and  Rudd  was  relieved. 

Archie  Bathurst  was  the  last  to  arrive,  and 
dropped  into  the  place  he  had  occupied  all  the 
afternoon.  It  was  immediately  facing  the  stranger, 
whom  he  favoured  with  a  brief  and  somewhat 
disparaging  stare  before  settling  down  to  play. 

The  game  was  a  pure  gamble.  They  played 
swiftly,  and  in  silence.  West  seemed  to  take  but 
slight  interest  in  the  issue,  but  he  won  steadily 
and  surely.  Young  Bathurst,  playing  feverishly, 
lost  and  lost,  and  lost  again.  The  fortunes  of  the 
other  four  players  varied.  But  always  the  new- 
comer won  his  ventures. 

The  evening  was  half  over  when  Archie  sud- 
denly and  loudly  demanded  higher  stakes,  to  turn 
his  luck,  as  he  expressed  it. 

"Double  them  if  you  like,"  said  West. 

Rudd  looked  at  him  with  a  distrustful  eye,  and 
said  nothing.  The  other  players  were  disposed 
to  accede  to  the  boy's  vehement  request,  and  after 
a  little  discussion  the  matter  wrs  settled  to  his 
satisfaction.  The  game  was  resumed  at  higher 
points. 

Some   onlookers  had   drawn  round   the  table 


io  The  Swindler 

scenting  excitement.  Archie,  sitting  with  his 
back  to  the  wall,  was  playing  with  headlong  reck- 
lessness. For  a  while  he  continued  to  lose,  and 
then  suddenly  and  most  unexpectedly  he  began  to 
win.  A  most  rash  speculation  resulted  in  his 
favour,  and  from  that  moment  it  seemed  that  his 
luck  had  turned.  Once  or  twice  he  lost,  but  these 
occasion  >  were  far  outbalanced  by  several  brilliant 
coups.  The  tide  had  turned  at  last  in  his  favour. 

He  played  as  a  man  possessed,  swiftly  and 
feverishly.  It  seemed  that  he  and  West  were  to 
divide  the  honours.  For  West's  luck  scarcely  va- 
ried, and  Rudd  continued  to  look  at  him  askance. 

For  the  greater  part  of  an  hour  young  Bathurst 
won  with  scarcely  a  break,  till  the.  spectators  began 
to  chaff  him  upon  his  outrageous  success. 

"You'd  better  stop,"  one  man  warned  him. 
"She's  a  fickle  jade,  you  know,  Bathurst.  Take 
too  much  for  granted,  and  she'll  desert  you." 

But  Bathurst  did  not  even  seem  to  hear.  He 
played  with  lowered  eyes  and  twitching  mouth, 
and  his  hands  shook  perceptibly.  The  gambler's 
lust  was  upon  him. 

"He'll  go  on  all  night, "  murmured  the  onlookers. 

But  this  prophecy  was  not  to  be  fulfilled. 

It  was  a  very  small  thing  that  stemmed  the 
racing  current  of  the  boy's  success — no  more  than 
a  slight  click  av  lible  only  to  a  few,  and  the  tinkle 
of  something  falling — but  in  an  instant,  swift  as  a 
thunderbolt,  the  wings  of  tragedy  swept  down  upon 
the  little  party  gathered  about  the  table. 


The  Swindler  n 

Young  Bathurst  uttered  a  queer,  half-choked 
exclamation,  and  dived  downwards.  But  the  man 
next  to  him,  an  Englishman  named  Norton,  dived 
also,  and  it  was  he  who,  after  a  moment,  righted 
himself  with  something  shining  in  his  hand  which 
he  proceeded  grimly  to  display  to  the  whole 
assembled  company.  It  was  a  small,  folding 
mirror — little  more  than  a  toy,  it  looked — with 
a  pin  attached  to  its  leathern  back. 

Deliberately  Norton  turned  it  over,  examining 
it  in  such  a  way  that  others  might  examine  it  too. 
Then,  having  concluded  his  investigation  of  this 
very  simple  contrivance,  he  slapped  it  down 
upon  the  table  with  a  gesture  of  unutterable 
contempt. 

"The  secret  of  success,"  he  observed. 

Every  one  present  looked  at  Archie,  who  had 
sunk  back  in  his  chair  white  to  the  lips.  He  seemed 
to  be  trying  to  say  something,  but  nothing  came 
of  it. 

And  then,  quite  calmly,  ending  a  silence  more 
terrible  than  any  tumult  of  words,  another  voice 
made  itself  heard. 

"Even  so,  Mr.  Norton."  West  bent  forward 
and  with  the  utmost  composure  possessed  himself 
of  the  shining  thing  upon  the  table.  "This  is 
my  property.  I  have  been  rooking  you  fellows 
all  the  evening." 

The  avowal  was  so  astounding  and  made  with 
such  complete  sang-froid  that  no  one  uttered  a 
word.  Only  every  one  turned  from  Archie  to 


12  The  Swindler 

stare  at  the  man  who  thus  serenely  claimed  his 
own. 

He  proceeded  with  unvarying  coolness  to  ex- 
plain himself. 

"It  was  really  done  as  an  experiment,"  he  said. 
"  I  am  not  a  card-sharper  by  profession,  as  some  of 
you  already  know.  But  in  the  course  of  certain 
investigations  not  connected  with  the  matter  I 
now  have  in  hand,  I  picked  this  thing  up,  and, 
being  something  of  a  specialist  in  certain  forms  of 
cheating,  I  made  up  my  mind  to  try  my  hand  at 
this  and  prove  for  myself  its  extreme  simplicity. 
You  see  how  easy  it  is  to  swindle,  gentlemen,  and 
the  danger  to  which  you  expose  yourselves.  There 
is  no  necessity  for  me  to  explain  the  trick  further. 
The  instrument  speaks  for  itself.  It  is  merely  a 
matter  of  dexterity,  and  keeping  it  out  of  sight." 

He  held  it  up  a  second  time  before  his  amazed 
audience,  twisted  it  this  way  and  that,  with  the  air 
of  a  conjurer  displaying  his  smartest  trick,  attached 
it  finally  to  the  lapel  of  his  coat,  and  rose. 

"As  a  practical  demonstration  it  seems  to  have 
acted  very  well,"  he  remarked.  "And  no  harm 
done.  If  you  are  all  satisfied,  so  am  I." 

He  collected  the  notes  at  his  elbow  with  a  single 
careless  sweep  of  the  hand,  and  tossed  them  into 
the  middle  of  the  table ;  then,  with  a  brief,  collec- 
tive bow,  he  turned  to  go.  But  Rudd,  the  first  to 
recover  from  his  amazement,  sprang  impetuously 
to  his  feet.  "One  moment,  sir!"  he  said. 

West  stopped  at  once,  a  cold  glint  of  humour  in 


The  Swindler  13 

his  eyes.  Without  a  sign  of  perturbation  he  faced 
round,  meeting  the  American's  hostile  scrutiny 
calmly,  judicially. 

"  I  wish  to  say, "  said  Rudd,"  on  behalf  of  myself, 
and — I  think  I  may  take  it — on  behalf  of  these 
other  gentlemen  also,  that  your  action  was  a  most 
dastardly  piece  of  impertinence,  to  give  it  its 
tamest  name.  Naturally,  we  don't  expect  Court 
manners  from  one  of  your  profession,  but  we  do 
look  for  ordinary  common  honesty.  But  it  seems 
that  we  look  in  vain.  You  have  behaved  like  a 
mighty  fine  skunk,  sir.  And  if  you  don't  see  that 
there's  any  crying  need  for  a  very  humble  apology, 
you've  got  about  the  thickest  hide  that  ever  frayed 
a  horsewhip." 

Every  one  was  standing  by  the  time  this  elabo- 
rate threat  was  uttered,  and  it  was  quite  obvious 
that  Rudd  voiced  the  general  opinion.  The  only 
one  whose  face  expressed  no  indignation  was 
Archie  Bathurst.  He  was  leaning  against  the 
wall,  mopping  his  forehead  with  a  shaking  hand. 

No  one  looked  at  him.  All  attention  was  cen- 
tred upon  West,  who  met  it  with  a  calm  serenity 
suggestive  of  contempt.  He  showed  himself  in 
no  hurry  to  respond  to  Rudd's  indictment,  and 
when  he  did  it  was  not  exclusively  to  Rudd  that 
he  spoke. 

"  I  am  sorry, "  he  coolly  said,  "that  you  consider 
yourselves  aggrieved  by  my  experiment.  I  do  not 
myself  see  in  what  way  I  have  injured  you.  How- 
ever, perhaps  you  are  the  best  judges  of  that.  If 


14  The  Swindler 

you  consider  an  apology  due  to  you,  I  am  quite 
ready  to  apologise." 

His  glance  rested  for  a  second  upon  Archie,  then 
slowly  swept  the  entire  assembly.  There  was 
scant  humility  about  him,  apologise  though  he 
might. 

Rudd  returned  his  look  with  open  disgust.  But 
it  was  Norton  who  replied  to  West's  calm  defence 
of  himself. 

"It  is  Bathurst  who  is  the  greatest  loser,"  he 
said,  with  a  glance  at  that  young  man,  who  was 
beginning  to  recover  from  h' -  agitation.  "It  was 
a  tomfool  trick  to  play,  but  it's  done.  You  won't 
get  another  opportunity  for  your  experiments  on 
board  this  boat.  So — if  Bathurst  is  satisfied — I 
should  say  the  sooner  you  apologise  and  clear  out 
the  better." 

"We  will  confiscate  this,  anyway,"  declared 
Rudd,  plucking  the  mirror  from  West's  coat. 

He  flung  it  down,  and  ground  his  heel  upon  it 
with  venomous  intention.  West  merely  shrugged 
his  shoulders. 

"I  apologise,"  he  said  briefly,  "singly  and 
collectively,  to  all  concerned  in  my  experiment, 
especially" — he  made  a  slight  pause — "to  Mr. 
Bathurst,  whose  run  of  luck  I  deeply  regret  to 
have  curtailed.  If  Mr.  Bathurst  is  satisfied,  I 
will  now  withdraw." 

He  paused  again,  as  if  to  give  Bathurst  an 
opportunity  to  express  an  opinion.  But  Archie 
said  nothing  whatever.  He  was  staring  down 


The  Swindler  15 

upon  the  table,  and  did  not  so  much  as  raise  his 
eyes. 

West  shrugged  his  shoulders  again,  ever  so 
slightly,  and  swung  slowly  upon  his  heel.  In  a 
dead  silence  he  walked  away  down  the  saloon. 
No  one  spoke  till  he  had  gone. 


A  black,  moaning  night  had  succeeded  the  grey, 
gusty  day.  The  darkness  came  down  upon  the 
sea  like  a  pall,  covering  the  long,  heaving  swell 
from  sight — a  darkness  that  wrapped  close,  such 
a  darkness  as  could  be  felt — through  which  the 
spray  drove  blindly. 

There  was  small  attraction  for  passengers  on 
deck,  and  West  grimaced  to  himself  as  he  emerged 
from  the  heated  cabins.  Yet  it  was  not  altogether 
distasteful  to  him.  He  was  a  man  to  whom  a  calm 
atmosphere  meant  intolerable  stagnation.  He  was 
essentially  born  to  fight  his  way  in  the  world. 

For  a  while  he  paced  alone,  to  and  fro,  along  the 
deserted  deck,  his  hands  behind  him,  the  inevitable 
cigarette  between  his  lips.  But  presently  he 
paused  and  stood  still  close  to  the  companion  by 
which  he  had  ascended.  It  was  sheltered  here, 
and  he  leaned  against  the  woodwork  by  which 
Cynthia  Mortimer  had  supported  herself  that 
morning,  and  smoked  serenely  and  meditatively. 

Minutes  passed.  There  came  the  sound  of 
hurrying  feet  upon  the  stairs  behind  him,  and  he 
moved  a  little  to  one  side,  glancing  downwards. 


16  The  Swindler 

The  light  at  the  head  of  the  companion  revealed 
a  man  ascending,  bareheaded,  and  in  evening  dress. 
His  face,  upturned,  gleamed  deathly  white.  It 
was  the  face  of  Archie  Bathurst. 

West  suddenly  squared  his  shoulders  and 
blocked  the  opening. 

"Go  and  get  an  overcoat,  you  young  fool!"  he 
said. 

Archie  gave  a  great  start,  stood  a  second,  then, 
without  a  word,  turned  back  and  disappeared. 

West  left  his  sheltered  corner  and  paced  for- 
ward across  the  deck.  He  came  to  a  stand  by  the 
rail,  gazing  outwards  into  the  restless  darkness. 
There  seemed  to  be  the  hint  of  a  smile  in  his  intent 
eyes. 

A  few  more  minutes  drifted  away.  Then  there 
fell  a  step  behind  him;  a  hand  touched  his  arm. 

"Can  I  speak  to  you?"  Archie  asked. 

Slowly  West  turned. 

"If  you  have  anything  of  importance  to  say," 
he  said. 

Archie  faced  him  with  a  desperate  resolution. 

"I  want  to  ask  you — I  want  to  know — what  in 
thunder  you  did  it  for!" 

"Eh?"  said  West.     "Did  what?" 

He  almost  drawled  the  words,  as  if  to  give  the 
boy  time  to  control  his  agitation. 

Archie  stared  at  him  incredulously. 

"You  must  know  what  I  mean." 

"Haven't  an  idea." 

There  was  just  a  tinge  of  contempt  this  time  in 


The  Swindler  17 

the  words.  What  an  unconscionable  bungler  the 
fellow  was! 

"But  you  must!"  persisted  Archie,  blundering 
wildly.  "I  suppose  you  knew  what  you  were 
doing  just  now  when — when " 

"I  generally  know  what  I  am  doing,"  observed 
West. 

"Then  why " 

Archie  stumbled  again,  and  fell  silent,  as  if  he 
had  hurt  himself. 

"I  don't  always  care  to  discuss  my  motives," 
said  West  very  decidedly. 

"But  surely — "  Archie  suddenly  pulled  up, 
realising  that  by  this  spasmodic  method  he  was 
making  no  headway.  "Look  here,  sir,"  he  said, 
more  quietly,  "you've  done  a  big  thing  for  me 
to-night — a  dashed  fine  thing!  Heaven  only 
knows  what  you  did  it  for,  but " 

"I  have  done  nothing  whatever  for  you,"  said 
West  shortly.  "You  make  a  mistake." 

"But  you'll  admit " 

"I  admit  nothing." 

He  made  as  if  he  would  turn  on  his  heel,  but 
Archie  caught  him  by  the  arm. 

"I  know  I'm  a  cur,"  he  said.  And  his  voice 
shook  a  little.  "I  don't  wonder  you  won't  speak 
to  me.  But  there  are  some  things  that  can't  be 
left  unsaid.  I'm  going  down  now,  at  once,  to  tell 
those  fellows  what  actually  happened." 

"Then  you  are  going  to  make  a  big  fool  of  your- 
self to  no  purpose,  "  said  West. 


i8  The  Swindler 

He  stood  still,  scanning  the  boy's  face  with 
pitiless  eyes.  Archie  writhed  impotently. 

"I  can't  stand  it!"  he  said,  with  vehemence. 
"I  thought  I  was  blackguard  enough  to  let  you  do 
it.  But — no  doubt  I'm  a  fool,  as  you  say — I  find 
I  can't." 

"You  can't  help  yourself,"  said  West.  He 
planted  himself  squarely  in  front  of  Archie. 
"Listen  to  this!"  he  said.  "You  know  what  I 
am?" 

"They  say  you  are  a  detective,"  said  Archie. 

West  nodded. 

"Exactly.  And,  as  such,  I  do  whatever  suits 
my  purpose  without  explaining  why  to  the  rest  of 
the  world.  If  you  are  fortunate  enough  to  glean 
a  little  advantage  from  what  I  do,  take  it,  and 
be  quiet  about  it.  Don't  hamper  me  with  your 
acknowledgments.  I  assure  you  I  have  no  more 
concern  for  your  ultimate  fate  than  those  fellows 
below  that  you've  been  swindling  all  the  evening. 
One  thing  I  will  say,  though,  for  your  express 
benefit.  You  will  never  make  a  good,  even  an 
indifferently  good,  gambler.  And  as  to  card- 
sharping,  you've  no  talent  whatever.  Better  give 
it  up." 

His  blue  eyes  looked  straight  at  Archie  with  a 
stare  that  was  openly  supercilious,  and  Archie 
stood  abashed. 

"You — you  are  awfully  good, "  he  stammered  at 
length. 

West's  brief  laugh  lived  in  his  memory  for  long 


The  Swindler  19 

after.  It  held  an  indescribable  sting,  almost  as 
if  the  man  resented  something.  Yet  the  next 
moment  unexpectedly  he  held  out  his  hand. 

' '  A  matter  of  opinion, ' '  he  observed  drily.  ' '  Good- 
night !  Remember  what  I  have  said  to  you." 

"I  shall  never  forget  it,"  Archie  said  earnestly. 

He  wrung  the  extended  hand  hard,  waited  an 
instant,  then,  as  West  turned  from  him  with  that 
slight  characteristic  lift  of  the  shoulders,  he  moved 
away  and  went  below. 


"I'd  just  like  a  little  talk  with  you,  Mr.  West, 
if  I  may."  Lightly  the  audacious  voice  arrested 
him,  and,  as  it  were,  against  his  will,  West  stood 
still. 

She  was  standing  behind  him  in  the  morning 
sunshine,  her  hair  blown  all  about  her  face,  her 
grey  eyes  wide  and  daring,  full  of  an  alert  friendli- 
ness that  could  not  be  ignored.  She  moved  for- 
ward with  her  light,  free  step  and  stood  beside 
him.  West  was  smoking  as  usual.  His  expres- 
sion was  decidedly  surly.  Cynthia  glanced  at  him 
once  or  twice  before  she  spoke. 

"  You  mustn't  mind  what  I'm  going  to  ask  you, " 
she  said  at  length  gently.  "Now,  Mr.  West,  what 
was  it — exactly — that  happened  in  the  saloon  last 
night?  Surely  you'll  tell  me  by  myself  if  I  pro- 
mise— honest  Injun — not  to  tell  again." 

"Why  should  I  tell  you?"  said  West,  in  his 
brief,  unfriendly  style. 


2O  The  Swindler 

Cynthia  was  undaunted.  "Because  you're  a 
gentleman,"  she  said  boldly. 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders .  "I  don't  know  what 
reason  I  have  given  you  to  say  so." 

"No?"  She  looked  at  him  with  a  funny  little 
smile.  "Well  then,  I  just  feel  it  in  my  bones;  and 
nothing  you  do  or  leave  undone  will  make  me 
believe  the  contrary." 

"Much  obliged  to  you,"  said  West.  His  blue 
eyes  were  staring  straight  out  over  the  sea  to  the 
long,  blue  skyline.  He  seemed  too  absorbed  in 
what  he  saw  to  pay  much  attention  to  the  girl 
beside  him. 

But  she  was  not  to  be  shaken  off.  "  Mr.  West, " 
she  began  again,  breaking  in  upon  his  silence,  "do 
you  know  what  they  are  saying  about  you  to-day?" 

"Haven't  an  idea." 

"No,"  she  said.  "And  I  don't  suppose  you 
care  either.  But  I  care.  It  matters  a  lot  to  me." 

"Don't  see  how,"  threw  in  West. 

He  turned  in  his  abrupt,  disconcerting  way,  and 
gave  her  a  piercing  look.  She  averted  her  face 
instantly,  but  he  had  caught  her  unawares. 

"Good  heavens!"  he  said.  "What's  the  mat- 
ter?" 

"Nothing,"  she  returned,  with  a  sort  of  choked 
vehemence.  "There's  nothing  the  matter  with 
me.  Only  I'm  feeling  badly  about — about  what 
I  asked  you  to  do  yesterday.  I'd  sooner  have 
lost  every  dollar  I  have  in  the  world,  if  I  had  only 
known,  than — than  have  you  do — what  you  did." 


The  Swindler  21 

"Good  heavens!"  West  said  again. 

He  waited  a  little  then,  looking  down  at  her  as 
she  leaned  upon  the  rail  with  downcast  face.  At 
length,  as  she  did  not  raise  her  head,  he  addressed 
her  for  the  first  time  on  his  own  initiative : 

"Miss  Mortimer!" 

She  made  a  slight  movement  to  indicate  that 
she  was  listening,  but  she  remained  gazing  down 
into  the  green  and  white  of  the  racing  water. 

Unconsciously  he  moved  a  little  nearer  to  her. 
"There  is  no  occasion  for  you  to  feel  badly,"  he 
said.  "I  had  my  own  reasons  for  what  I  did.  It 
doesn't  much  matter  what  they  were.  But  let  me 
tell  you  for  your  comfort  that  neither  socially  nor 
professionally  has  it  done  me  any  harm." 

"They  are  all  saying:  'Set  a  thief  to  catch  a 
thief,'"  she  interposed,  with  something  like  a  sob 
in  her  voice. 

"They  can  say  what  they  like." 

West's  tone  expressed  the  most  stoical  indiffer- 
ence, but  she  would  not  be  comforted. 

"If  only  I  hadn't — asked  you  to!"  she  mur- 
mured. 

He  made  his  peculiar,  shrugging  gesture.  "  What 
does  it  matter?  Moreover,  what  you  asked  of 
me  was  something  quite  apart  from  this.  It  had 
nothing  whatever  to  do  with  it." 

She  stood  up  sharply  at  that,  and  faced  him  with 
burning  eyes.  "Oh,  don't  tell  me  that  lie!"  she 
exclaimed  passionately.  "I'm  not  such  a  child 
as  to  be  taken  in  by  it.  You  don't  deceive  me 


22  The  Swindler 

at  all,  Mr.  West.  I  know  as  well  as  you  do — 
better — that  the  man  who  did  the  swindling  last 
night  was  not  you.  And  I'm  sick — I  'm  downright 
sick — whenever  I  think  of  it!" 

West's  expression  changed  slightly  as  he  looked 
at  her.  He  seemed  to  regard  her  as  a  doctor 
regards  the  patient  for  whom  he  contemplates  a 
change  of  treatment. 

"See  here,"  he  abruptly  said.  "You  are  dis- 
tressing yourself  all  to  no  purpose.  If  you  will 
promise  to  keep  it  secret,  I'll  t?li  you  the  facts  of 
the  case." 

Cynthia's  face  changed  also.  She  caught  ea- 
gerly at  the  suggestion.  "Yes?"  she  said.  "Yes? 
I  promise,  of  course.  And  I'm  quite  trust- 
worthy." 

"I  believe  you  are,"  he  said,  with  a  grim  smile. 
"Well,  the  fact  of  the  matter  is  this.  The  man  we 
want  is  on  board  this  ship,  but  being  only  a  pri- 
vate detective,  I  don't  possess  a  warrant  for  his 
arrest.  Therefore  all  I  can  do  is  to  keep  him  in 
sight.  And  I  can  only  do  that  by  throwing  him 
as  far  as  possible  off  the  scent.  If  he  takes  me 
for  a  card-sharper,  all  the  better.  For  he's  as 
slippery  as  an  eel,  and  I  have  to  play  him  pretty 
carefully." 

He  ceased.  Cynthia's  eyes  were  growing  wider 
and  wider. 

"Nat  Verney  on  board  this  ship?"  she  gasped. 

He  nodded. 

"Yes.     You  wanted  him  to  get  away,  didn't 


The  Swindler  23 

you?  But  I  don't  think  he  will,  this  time.  He 
will  probably  be  arrested  directly  we  reach  New 
York.  But,  meantime,  I  must  watch  out." 

"Oh!"  breathed  Cynthia.  "Then"— with  sud- 
den hope  dawning  in  her  eyes — "it  really  was  your 
doing,  that  trick  at  the  card- table  last  night?" 

West  uttered  his  brief,  hard  laugh. 

"What  do  you  take  me  for?" 

She  heaved  a  great  sigh  of  relief. 

"And  it  wasn't  Archie,  after  all?  I'm  thankful 
you  told  me.  I  thought — I  thought —  But  it 
doesn't  matter,  does  it?  Tell  me,  do  tell  me, 
Mr.  West,"  drawing  very  close  to  him,  "which — 
which  is  Mr.  Nat  Verney?" 

West  seemed  to  hesitate. 

"Oh,  do  tell  me!"  she  begged.  "IknowI'm 
only  a  woman,  but  I  always  keep  my  word.  And 
it's  only  two  days  more  to  New  York." 

He  looked  closely  into  her  eyes  and  yielded. 

"I'm  trusting  you  with  my  reputation,"  he 
said .  "  It '  s  the  stout ,  red-faced  man  called  Rudd . ' ' 

" Mr.  Rudd? "  She  started  back.  "You  don't 
say?  That  man?"  There  followed  a  short  pause 
while  she  digested  the  information.  Then,  as  on 
the  previous  morning,  she  suddenly  extended  her 
hand.  "Well,  I  hate  that  man,  anyway.  And  I 
believe  you're  really  clever.  If  you  like,  Mr. 
West,  I'll  help  you  to  watch  out." 

"Thanks ! "  said  West.  He  took  the  little  hand 
into  a  tight  grip,  still  looking  straight  into  her 
eyes.  There  was  a  light  in  his  own  that  shone 


24  The  Swindler 

like  a  blue  flame.  "Thanks!"  he  said  again,  as 
he  released  it.  "You're  very  good,  Miss  Morti- 
mer. But  you  mustn't  be  seen  with  me,  you  know. 
You've  got  to  remember  that  I'm  a  swindler." 

The  girl  laughed  aloud.  It  pleased  her  to  feel 
that  this  taciturn  man  had  taken  her  into  his 
confidence  at  last.  "I  shall  remember,"  she  said 
lightly. 

And  she  went  away,  not  only  comforted,  but 
gay  of  heart. 

During  the  remainder  of  the  voyage,  West  was 
treated  with  extreme  coolness  by  every  one.  It 
did  not  seem  to  abash  him  in  the  least.  He  came 
and  went  in  the  crowd  with  the  utmost  sang- 
froid, always  preoccupied,  always  self-contained. 
Cynthia  observed  him  from  a  distance  with  admira- 
tion. The  man  had  taken  her  fancy.  She  was 
keenly  interested  in  his  methods,  as  well  as  in 
his  decidedly  unusual  personality.  She  observed 
Rudd  also,  and  noted  the  obvious  suspicion  with 
which  he  regarded  West.  On  the  night  before 
their  arrival  she  saw  the  latter  alone  for  a  moment, 
and  whispered  to  him  that  Mr.  Rudd  seemed 
uneasy.  At  which  information  West  merely 
laughed  sardonically.  He  was  holding  a  small 
parcel,  to  which,  after  a  moment,  he  drew  her 
attention. 

"I  was  going  to  ask  you  to  accept  this,"  he  said. 
"It  is  nothing  very  important,  but  I  should  like 
you  to  have  it.  Don't  open  it  before  to-morrow." 


The  Swindler  25 

"What  is  it?"  asked  Cynthia,  in  surprise. 

He  frowned  in  his  abrupt  way. 

"It  doesn't  matter;  something  connected  with 
my  profession.  I  shouldn't  give  it  you,  if  I  didn't 
know  you  were  to  be  trusted." 

"But— but"— she  hesitated  a  little — "ought  I 
to  take  it?" 

He  raised  his  shoulders. 

"I  shall  give  it  to  the  captain  for  you,  if  you 
don't.  But  I  would  rather  give  it  to  you  direct." 

In  face  of  this,  Cynthia  yielded,  feeling  as  if  he 
compelled  her. 

"But  mayn't  I  open  it?" 

"No."  West's  eyes  held  hers  for  a  second. 
"Not  till  to-morrow.  And,  in  case  we  don't  meet 
again,  I'll  say  good-bye." 

"But  we  shall  meet  in  New  York?"  she  urged, 
with  a  sudden  sense  of  loss.  "Or  perhaps  in 
Boston?  My  father  would  really  like  to  meet 
you." 

"Much  obliged,"  said  West,  with  his  grim 
smile.  "But  I'm  not  much  of  a  society  man. 
And  I  don't  think  I  shall  find  myself  in  Boston  at 
present." 

"Then — then — I  sha'n't  see  you  again — ever?" 
Cynthia's  tone  was  unconsciously  tragic.  Till 
that  moment  she  had  scarcely  realised  how  cu- 
riously strong  an  attraction  this  man  held  for 
her. 

West's  expression  changed.  His  emotionless 
blue  eyes  became  suddenly  more  blue,  and  intense 


26  The  Swindler 

with  a  vital  fire.  He  leaned  towards  her  as  one 
on  the  verge  of  vehement  speech. 

Then  abruptly  his  look  went  beyond  her,  and 
he  checked  himself. 

"Who  knows?"  he  said  carelessly.  "Good- 
bye for  the  present,  anyway !  It's  been  a  pleasant 
voyage." 

He  straightened  himself  with  the  words,  nodded, 
and  turned  aside  without  so  much  as  touching  her 
hand. 

And  Cynthia,  glancing  round  with  an  instinctive 
feeling  of  discomfiture,  saw  Rudd  with  another 
man,  standing  watching  them  at  the  end  of  the 
passage. 

In  the  dark  of  early  morning  they  reached  New 
York.  Most  of  the  passengers  decided  to  remain 
on  board  for  breakfast,  which  was  served  at  an 
early  hour  in  the  midst  of  a  hubbub  and  turmoil 
indescribable. 

Cynthia,  with  her  aunt  and  Archie,  partook  of  a 
hurried  meal  in  the  thick  of  the  ever-shifting 
crowd.  She  looked  in  vain  for  West,  her  grey 
eyes  searching  perpetually. 

One  friend  after  another  came  up  to  bid  them 
good-bye,  stood  a  little,  talking,  and  presently 
drifted  away.  The  whole  ship  from  end  to  end 
hummed  like  a  hive  of  bees. 

She  was  glad  when  at  length  she  was  able  to 
escape  from  the  noisy  saloon.  She  had  not  slept 
well,  and  her  nerves  were  on  edge.  The  memory 


The  Swindler  27 

of  that  interrupted  conversation  with  West,  of  the 
confidence  unspoken,  went  with  her  continually. 
She  had  an  almost  feverish  longing  to  see  him  once 
more,  even  though  it  were  in  the  heart  of  the 
crowd.  He  had  been  about  to  tell  her  something. 
Of  that  she  was  certain.  She  had  an  intense,  an 
almost  passionate  desire  to  know  what  it  was. 
Surely  he  would  not — he  could  not — go  ashore 
without  seeing  her  again ! 

She  had  not  intended  to  open  the  packet  he  had 
given  her  till  she  was  ashore  herself,  but  a  palpi- 
tating curiosity  tugged  ever  at  her  resolution  till 
at  length  she  could  resist  it  no  longer.  West  was 
nowhere  to  be  seen,  and  she  felt  she  must  know 
more.  It  was  intolerable  to  be  thus  left  in  the 
dark.  Through  the  scurrying  multitude  of  de- 
parting passengers,  she  began  to  make  her  way 
back  to  her  cabin.  Her  progress  was  of  necessity 
slow,  and  once  in  a  crowded  corner  she  was  stopped 
altogether. 

Two  men  were  talking  together  close  to  her. 
Their  backs  were  towards  her,  and  in  the  general 
confusion  they  did  not  observe  her  futile  im- 
patience to  pass. 

"Oh,  I  knew  the  fellow  was  a  wrong  'un,  all 
along,"  were  the  first  words  that  filtered  to  the 
girl's  consciousness  as  she  stood.  "But  I  didn't 
think  he  was  responsible  for  that  card  trick,  I  must 
say.  Young  Bathurst  looked  so  abominably 
hangdog." 

It  was  the  Englishman,  Norton,  who  spoke,  and 


28  The  Swindler 

the  man  who  stood  with  him  was  Rudd.  Cynthia 
realised  the  near  presence  of  the  latter  with  a 
sensation  of  disgust.  His  drawling  tones  grated 
upon  her  intolerably. 

"Waal,"  he  said,  "it  was  just  that  card  trick 
that  opened  my  eyes — I  shouldn't  have  noticed 
him,  otherwise.  I  knew  that  young  Bathurst  was 
square.  He  hasn't  the  brains  to  be  anything  else. 
And  when  this  chap  butted  in  with  his  thick- 
ribbed  impudence,  I  guessed  right  then  that  we 
hadn't  got  a  beginner  to  deal  with.  After  that 
I  watched  for  a  bit,  and  there  were  several  little 
things  that  made  me  begin  to  reflect.  So  the  next 
evening  I  got  a  wireless  message  off  to  my  partner 
in  New  York,  and  I  reckon  that  did  the  trick. 
When  we  came  up  alongside  this  morning,  the 
vultures  were  all  ready  for  him.  I  took  them  to 
his  cabin  myself.  There  was  no  fuss  at  all.  He 
saw  it  was  all  up,  and  gave  in  without  a  murmur. 
They  were  only  just  in  time,  though.  In  another 
thirty  seconds,  he  would  have  been  off.  It  was  a 
clever  piece  of  work,  I  flatter  myself,  to  net  Mr. 
Nat  Verney  so  neatly." 

The  Englishman  began  to  laugh,  but  suddenly 
broke  off  short  as  a  girl's  face,  white  and  quivering, 
came  between  them. 

"Who  is  this  man?"  the  high,  breathless 
voice  demanded.  "Which — which  is  Mr.  Nat 
Verney?" 

Rudd  looked  down  at  her  through  narrowed 
eyes.  He  was  smiling — a  small,  bitter  smile. 


The  Swindler  29 

"Waal,  Miss  Mortimer,"  he  began,  "I  reckon 
you  have  first  right  to  know " 

She  turned  from  him  imperiously. 

"You  tell  me,"  she  commanded  Norton. 

Norton  looked  genuinely  uncomfortable,  and, 
probably  in  consequence,  he  answered  her  with  a 
gruffness  that  sounded  brutal. 

"  It  was  West.  He  has  been  arrested.  His  own 
fault  entirely.  No  one  would  have  suspected  him 
if  he  hadn't  been  a  fool,  and  given  his  own  show 
away." 

"He  wasn't  a  fool!"  Cynthia  flashed  back 
fiercely.  "He  was  my  friend!" 

"I  shouldn't  be  in  too  great  a  hurry  to  claim 
that  distinction,"  remarked  Rudd.  "He's  about 
the  best-known  rascal  in  the  two  hemispheres." 

But  Cynthia  did  not  wait  to  hear  him.  She  had 
slipped  past,  and  was  gone. 

In  her  own  cabin  at  last,  she  bolted  the  door  and 
tore  open  that  packet  connected  with  his  profes- 
sion which  he  had  given  her  the  night  before.  It 
contained  a  roll  of  notes  to  the  value  of  a  hundred 
pounds,  wrapped  in  a  sheet  of  notepaper  on  which 
was  scrawled  a  single  line:  "With  apologies  from 
the  man  who  swindled  you." 

There  was  no  signature  of  any  sort.  None  was 
needed!  When  Cynthia  finally  left  her  cabin  an 
hour  later,  her  eyes  were  bright  with  that  bright- 
ness which  comes  from  the  shedding  of  many 
tears. 


The  Swindler's  Handicap 

A  SEQUEL  TO  "THE  SWINDLER" 

Which  I  Dedicate  to  the  Friend  Who  Asked  for  it. 

I 

"  V"ES,  but  what's  the  good  of  it?"  said  Cynthia 
I      Mortimer  gently.      "I   can  never   marry 
you." 

"You  might  be  engaged  to  me  for  a  bit,  any- 
how," he  urged,  "and  see  how  you  like  it." 

She  made  a  quaint  gesture  with  her  arms,  as 
though  she  tried  to  lift  some  heavy  weight. 

"I  am  very  sorry,"  she  said,  in  the  same  gentle 
voice.  "It's  very  nice  of  you  to  think  of  it,  Lord 
Babbacombe.  But — you  see,  I'm  quite  sure  I 
shouldn't  like  it.  So  that  ends  it,  doesn't  it?" 

He  stood  up  to  his  full  height,  and  regarded  her 
with  a  faint,  rueful  smile. 

"You're  a  very  obstinate  girl,  Cynthia,"  he 
said. 

She  leaned  back  in  her  chair,  looking  up  at  him 
with  clear,  grey  eyes  that  met  his  with  absolute 
freedom. 

30 


The  Swindler's  Handicap  31 

"  I'm  not  a  girl  at  all,  Jack, "  she  said.  "  I  gave 
up  all  my  pretensions  to  youth  many,  many  years 
ago." 

He  nodded,  still  faintly  smiling. 

"You  were  about  nineteen,  weren't  you?" 

"No.  I  was  past  twenty-one."  A  curious  note 
crept  into  her  voice;  it  sounded  as  if  she  were 
speaking  of  the  dead.  "It — was  just  twelve 
years  ago,"  she  said. 

Babbacombe's  eyebrows  went  up. 

"What!    Are  you  past  thirty?    I  had  no  idea." 

She  laughed  at  him — a  quick,  gay  laugh. 

"Why,  it's  eight  years  since  I  first  met  you." 

"Is  it?  Great  heavens,  how  the  time  goes — 
wasted  time,  too,  Cynthia !  We  might  have  been 
awfully  happy  together  all  this  time.  Well" — 
with  a  sharp  sigh — "we  can't  get  it  back  again. 
But  anyhow,  we  needn't  squander  any  more  of  it, 
if  only  you  will  be  reasonable." 

She  shook  her  head;  then,  with  one  of  those 
quick  impulses  that  were  a  part  of  her  charm,  she 
sprang  lightly  up  and  gave  him  both  her  hands. 

"No,  Jack,"  she  said.  "No— no— no!  I'm 
not  reasonable.  I  'm  just  a  drivelling,  idiotic  fool. 
But — but  I  love  my  foolishness  too  well  ever  to 
part  with  it.  Ever,  did  I  say?  No,  even  I  am 
not  quite  so  foolish  as  that.  But  it's  sublime 
enough  to  hold  me  till — till  I  know  for  certain 
whether — whether  the  thing  I  call  love  is  real  or — 
or — only — a  sham." 

There  was  passion  in  her  voice,  and  her  eyes  were 


32  The  Swindler 

suddenly  full  of  tears ;  but  she  kept  them  upturned 
to  his  as  though  she  pleaded  with  him  to  under- 
stand. 

He  looked  down  at  her  very  kindly,  very 
steadily,  holding  her  hands  closely  in  his  own. 
There  was  no  hint  of  chagrin  on  his  clean-shaven 
face — only  the  utmost  kindness. 

"Don't  cry!"  he  said  gently.  "Tell  me  about 
this  sublime  foolishness  of  yours — about  the  thing 
you  call — love.  I  might  help  you,  perhaps — who 
knows? — to  find  out  if  it  is  the  real  thing  or  not." 

Her  lips  were  quivering. 

"I've  never  told  a  soul,"  she  said.  "I — am 
half  afraid." 

"Nonsense,  dear!"  he  protested. 

"But  I  am,"  she  persisted.  "It's  such  an 
absurd  romance — this  of  mine,  so  absurd  that 
you'll  laugh  at  it,  just  at  first.  And  then — after- 
wards— you  will — disapprove." 

"My  dear  girl,"  he  said,  "you  have  never 
entertained  the  smallest  regard  for  my  opinion 
before .  Why  begin  to-day  ?  " 

She  laughed  a  little,  turning  from  him  to  brush 
away  her  tears. 

"Sit  down,"  she  said,  "and — and  smoke — those 
horrid  strong  cigarettes  of  yours.  I  love  the 
smell.  Perhaps  I'll  try  and  tell  you.  But — mind, 
Jack — you're  not  to  look  at  me.  And  you're  not 
to  say  a  single  word  till  I've  done.  Just — smoke, 
that's  all." 

She  settled  herself  on  the  low  fender-cushion 


The  Swindler's  Handicap  33 

with  her  face  turned  from  him  to  the  fire.  Lord 
Babbacombe  sat  down  as  she  desired,  and  took 
out  and  lighted  a  cigarette. 

As  the  scent  of  it  reached  her  she  began  to  speak 
in  the  high,  American  voice  he  had  come  to  love. 
There  was  nothing  piercing  about  it;  it  was  a 
clear,  sweet  treble. 

"It  happened  when  I  was  travelling  under 
Aunt  Bathurst's  wing.  You  know,  it  was  with 
her  and  my  cousin  Archie  that  I  first  did  Europe. 
My!  It  was  a  long  time  ago!  I've  been  round 
the  world  four  times  since  then — twice  with  poor 
dear  Daddy,  once  with  Mrs.  Archie,  after  he  died, 
and  the  last  time — alone.  And  I  didn't  like  that 
last  time  a  mite.  I  was  like  the  man  in  The 
Pilgrim's  Progress — I  took  my  hump  wherever  I 
went.  Still,  I  had  to  do  something.  You  were 
big-game  shooting.  I'd  have  gone  with  you  if 
you'd  have  had  me  unmarried.  But  I  knew  you 
wouldn't,  so  I  just  had  to  mess  around  by  myself. 
Oh,  but  I  was  tired — I  was  tired!  But  I  kept 
saying  to  myself  it  was  the  last  journey  before — 
Jack,  if  you  don't  smoke  your  cigarette  will  go 
out.  Where  was  I?  I'm  afraid  I'm  boring  you. 
You  can  go  to  sleep  if  you  like.  Well,  it  was  on 
the  voyage  back.  There  was  a  man  on  board  that 
every  one  said  was  a  private  detective.  It  was 
at  the  time  of  the  great  Nat  Verney  swindles. 
You  remember,  of  course?  And  somehow  we  all 
jumped  to  the  conclusion  that  he  was  tracking- 
him.  I  remember  seeing  him  when  we  first  went 


34  The  Swindler 

on  board  at  Liverpool.  He  was  standing  by  the 
gangway  watching  the  crowd  with  the  bluest  eyes 
on  earth,  and  I  took  him  for  a  detective  right 
away.  But — for  all  that — there  was  something 
about  him — something  I  kind  of  liked,  that  made 
me  feel  I  wanted  to  know  him.  He  was  avoiding 
everybody,  but  I  made  him  talk  to  me.  You 
know  my  way." 

She  paused  for  a  moment,  and  leaning  forward, 
gazed  into  the  heart  of  the  fire  with  wide,  intent 
eyes. 

The  man  in  the  chair  behind  her  smoked  on 
silently  with  a  drawn  face. 

"He  was  very  horrid  to  me,"  she  went  on,  her 
voice  soft  and  slow  as  though  she  were  describing 
something  seen  in  a  vision,  "the  only  man  who 
ever  was.  But  I — do  you  know,  I  liked  him  all 
the  more  for  that?  I  didn't  flirt  with  him.  I 
didn't  try.  He  wasn't  the  sort  one  could  flirt 
with.  He  was  hard — hard  as  iron,  clean-shaven, 
with  an  immensely  powerful  jaw,  and  eyes  that 
looked  clean  through  you.  He  was  one  of  those 
short,  broad  Englishmen — you  know  the  sort- 
out  of  proportion  everywhere,  but  so  splendidly 
strong.  He  just  hated  me  for  making  friends 
with  him.  It  was  very  funny." 

An  odd  little  note  of  laughter  ran  through  the 
words — that  laughter  which  is  akin  to  tears. 

"But  I  didn't  care  for  that,"  she  said.  "It 
didn't  hurt  me  in  the  least.  He  was  too  big  to 
give  offence  to  an  impudent  little  minx  like  me. 


The  Swindler's  Handicap          35 

Besides,  I  wanted  him  to  help  me,  and  after  a  bit 
I  told  him  so.  Archie — my  cousin,  you  know;  he 
was  only  a  boy  then — was  mad  on  card-playing 
at  that  time.  And  I  was  real  worried  about  him. 
I  knew  he  would  get  into  a  hole  sooner  or  later, 
and  I  begged  my  surly  Englishman  to  keep  an 
eye  on  him.  Oh,  I  was  a  fool !  I  was  a  brainless, 
chattering  fool!  And  I'm  not  much  better  now, 
I  often  think." 

Cynthia's  hand  went  up  to  her  eyes.  The 
vision  in  the  fire  was  all  blurred  and  indistinct. 

Babbacombe  was  leaning  forward,  listening  in- 
tently. The  firelight  flickered  on  his  face,  show- 
ing it  very  grave  and  still.  He  did  not  attempt 
to  speak. 

Nevertheless,  after  a  moment,  Cynthia  made  a 
wavering  movement  with  one  hand  in  his  direction. 

"I'm  not  crying,  Jack.  Don't  be  silly!  I'm 
sure  your  cigarette  is  out." 

It  was.  He  pitched  it  past  her  into  the 
fire. 

"Light  another,"  she  pleaded.  "I  love  them 
so.  They  are  the  kind  he  always  smoked.  That's 
nearly  the  end  of  the  story.  You  can  almost  guess 
the  rest.  That  very  night  Archie  did  get  into  a 
hole,  a  bad  one,  and  the  only  way  my  friend  could 
lift  him  out  was  by  getting  down  into  it  himself. 
He  saved  him,  but  it  was  at  his  own  expense;  for 
it  made  people  begin  to  reflect.  And  in  the  end — 
in  the  end,  when  we  came  into  harbour,  they  came 
on  board,  and — and  arrested  him  early  in  the 


36  The  Swindler 

morning — before  I  knew.  You  see,  he — he  was 
Nat  Verney." 

Cynthia's  dark  head  was  suddenly  bowed  upon 
her  hands.  She  was  rocking  to  and  fro  in  the 
firelight. 

"And  it  was  my  fault,"  she  sobbed — "all  my 
fault.  If — if  he  hadn't  done  that  thing  for  me, 
no  one  would  have  known — no  one  would  have 
suspected!" 

She  had  broken  down  completely  at  last,  and 
the  man  who  heard  her  wondered,  with  a  deep 
compassion,  how  often  she  had  wept,  in  secret  and 
uncomforted,  as  she  was  weeping  now. 

He  bore  it  till  his  humanity  could  endure  no 
longer.  And  then,  very  gently,  he  reached  out, 
touched  her,  drew  her  to  him,  pillowed  her  head 
on  his  shoulder. 

"Don't  cry,  Cynthia,"  he  whispered  earnestly. 
"It's  heart-breaking  work,  dear,  and  it  doesn't 
help.  There!  Let  me  hold  you  till  you  feel 
better.  You  can't  refuse  comfort  from  an  old 
friend  like  me." 

She  yielded  to  him  mutely  for  a  little,  till  her 
grief  had  somewhat  spent  itself.  Then,  with  a 
little  quivering  smile,  she  lifted  her  head  and 
looked  him  straight  in  the  face. 

"Thank  you,  Jack,"  she  said.  "You — you've 
done  me  good.  But  it's  not  good  for  you,  is  it? 
I've  made  you  quite  damp.  You  don't  think 
you'll  catch  cold?" — dabbing  at  his  shoulder  with 
her  handkerchief. 


The  Swindler's  Handicap  37 

He  took  her  hand  and  stayed  it. 

"There  is  nothing  in  this  world,"  he  said  gravely 
"that  I  would  so  gladly  do  as  help  you,  Cynthia. 
Will  you  believe  this,  and  treat  me  from  this 
standpoint  only?  " 

She  turned  back  to  the  fire,  but  she  left  her  hand 
in  his. 

"My  dear,"  she  said,  in  an  odd  little  choked 
voice,  "it's  just  like  you  to  say  so,  and  I  guess  I 
sha'n't  forget  it.  Well,  well !  There's  my  romance 
in  a  nutshell.  He  didn't  care  a  fig  for  me  till  just 
the  last.  He  cared  then,  but  it  was  too  late  to 
come  to  anything.  They  shipped  him  back  again 
you  know,  and  he  was  sentenced  to  fifteen  years' 
penal  servitude.  He's  done  nearly  twelve,  and 
he's  coming  out  next  month  on  ticket-of -leave." 

"Oh,  Cynthia!" 

Babbacombe  bent  his  head  suddenly  upon  her 
hand,  and  sat  tense  and  silent. 

"I  know,"  she  said — "I  know.  It  sounds 
simply  monstrous,  put  into  bald  words.  I  some- 
times wonder  myself  if  it  can  possibly  be  true — if 
I,  Cynthia  Mortimer,  can  really  be  such  a  fool. 
But  I  can't  possibly  tell  for  certain  till  I  see  him 
again.  I  must  see  him  again  somehow.  I've 
waited  all  these  years — all  these  years." 

Babbacombe  groaned. 

"And  suppose,  when  you've  seen  him,  you  still 
care?" 

She  shook  her  head. 

"  What  then,  Jack  ?   I  don't  know ;  I  don't  know." 


38  The  Swindler 

He  pulled  himself  together,  and  sat  up. 

"Do  you  know  where  he  is?" 

"Yes.  He  is  at  Barren  Hill.  He  has  been 
there  for  five  years  now.  My  solicitor  knows  that 
I  take  an  interest  in  him.  He  calls  it  philan- 
thropy." Cynthia  smiled  faintly  into  the  fire. 
"I  was  one  of  the  people  he  swindled,"  she  said. 
"But  he  paid  me  back." 

She  rose  and  went  across  the  room  to  a  bureau 
in  a  corner.  She  unlocked  a  drawer,  and  took 
something  from  it.  Returning,  she  laid  a  packet 
of  notes  in  Babbacombe's  hands. 

"  I  could  never  part  with  them, "  she  said.  "  He 
gave  them  to  me  in  a  sealed  parcel  the  last  time  I 
saw  him.  It's  only  a  hundred  pounds.  Yes,  that 
was  the  message  he  wrote.  Can  you  read  it? 
'With  apologies  from  the  man  who  swindled  you.' 
As  if  I  cared  for  the  wretched  money!" 

Babbacombe  frowned  over  the  writing  in  silence. 

"Why  don't  you  say  what  you  think,  Jack?" 
she  said.  "Why  don't  you  call  him  a  thieving 
scoundrel  and  me  a  poor,  romantic  fool!" 

"I  am  trying  to  think  how  I  can  help  you,"  he 
answered  quietly.  "Have  you  any  plans?" 

"No,  nothing  definite,"  she  said.  "It  is  dif' 
ficult  to  know  what  to  do.  He  knows  one  thing 
— that  he  has  a  friend  who  will  help  him  when 
he  comes  out.  He  will  be  horribly  poor,  you 
know,  and  I'm  so  rich.  But,  of  course,  I  would 
do  it  anonymously.  And  he  thinks  his  friend  is 
a  man." 


The  Swindler's  Handicap  39 

Babbacombe  pondered  with  drawn  brows. 

"Cynthia,"  he  said  slowly,  at  length,  "suppof? 
I  take  this  matter  into  my  own  hands,  suppose  I 
make  it  possible  for  you  to  see  this  man  once  more, 
will  you  be  guided  entirely  by  me?  Will  you 
promise  me  solemnly  to  take  no  rash  step  of  any 
description;  in  short,  to  do  nothing  without 
consulting  me?  Will  you  promise  me,  Cynthia?" 

He  spoke  very  earnestly.  The  firelight  showed 
her  the  resolution  on  his  face. 

"Of  course  I  will  promise  you,  Jack,"  she  said 
instantly.  "I  would  trust  myself  body  and 
soul  in  your  keeping.  But  what  can  you 
do?" 

"I  might  do  this,"  he  said.  "I  might  pose 
as  his  unknown  friend — another  philanthropist, 
Cynthia."  He  smiled  rather  grimly.  "I  might 
get  hold  of  him  when  he  comes  out,  give  him  some- 
thing to  do  to  keep  his  head  above  water.  If  he 
has  any  manhood  in  him,  he  won't  mind  what  he 
takes.  And  I  might — later,  if  I  thought  it 
practicable — I  only  say  'if,'  Cynthia,  for  after 
many  years  of  prison  life  a  man  isn't  always  fit 
company  for  a  lady — I  might  arrange  that  you 
should  see  him  in  some  absolutely  casual  fashion. 
If  you  consent  to  this  arrangement  you  must 
leave  that  entirely  to  me." 

"But  you  will  hate  to  do  it!"  she  exclaimed. 

He  rose.  "I  will  do  it  for  your  sake,"  he  said. 
"  I  shall  not  hate  it  if  it  makes  you  see  things — as 
they  are." 


40  The  Swindler 

"Oh,  but  you  are  good, "  she  said  tremulously — 
"you  are  good!" 

"I  love  a  good  woman,"  he  answered  gravely. 

And  with  that  he  turned  and  left  her  alone  in 
the  firelight  with  her  romance. 

II 

It  was  early  on  a  dark  November  day  that  the 
prison  gate  at  Barren  Hill  opened  to  allow  a  convict 
who  had  just  completed  twelve  years'  penal  servi- 
tude to  pass  out  a  free  man. 

A  motor  car  was  drawn  up  at  the  side  of  the 
kerb  as  he  emerged,  and  a  man  in  a  long  overcoat, 
with  another  slung  on  his  arm,  was  pacing  up  and 
down. 

He  wheeled  at  the  closing  of  the  gate,  and  they 
stood  face  to  face. 

There  was  a  moment's  difficult  silence;  then  the 
man  with  the  motor  spoke. 

"Mr.  West,  I  think?" 

The  other  looked  him  up  and  down  in  a  single 
comprehensive  glance  that  was  like  the  flash  of  a 
sword  blade. 

"Certainly,"  he  said  curtly,  "if  you  prefer  it." 

He  was  a  short,  thick-set  man  of  past  forty,  with 
a  face  so  grimly  lined  as  to  mask  all  expression. 
His  eyes  alone  were  vividly  alert.  They  were  the 
bluest  eyes  that  Babbacombe  had  ever  seen. 

He  accepted  the  curt  acknowledgment  with 
grave  courtesy,  and  made  a  motion  toward  the  car. 

"Will  you  get  in?     My  name  is  Babbacombe. 


The  Swindler's  Handicap  41 

I  am  here  to  meet  you,  as  no  doubt  you  have  been 
told.  You  had  better  wear  this" — opening  out 
the  coat  he  carried. 

But  West  remained  motionless,  facing  him  on 
the  grey,  deserted  road.  "Before  I  come  with 
you,"  he  said,  in  his  brief,  clipped  style,  "there  is 
one  thing  I  want  to  know.  Are  you  patronising 
me  for  the  sake  of  philanthropy,  or  for — some 
other  reason?" 

As  he  uttered  the  question,  he  fixed  Babbacombe 
with  a  stare  that  was  not  without  insolence. 

Babbacombe  did  not  hesitate  in  his  reply.  He 
was  not  a  man  to  be  lightly  disconcerted. 

"You  can  put  it  down  to  anything  you  like," 
he  said,  "except  philanthropy." 

West  considered  a  moment. 

"Very  well,  sir,"  he  said  finally,  his  aggressive 
tone  slightly  modified.  "In  that  case  I  will  come 
with  you." 

He  turned  about,  and  thrust  his  arms  into  the 
coat  Babbacombe  held  for  him,  turned  up  the 
collar,  and  without  a  backward  glance,  stepped 
into  the  waiting  motor. 

Babbacombe  started  the  engine,  and  followed 
him.  In  another  moment  they  had  glided  away 
into  the  dripping  mist,  and  the  prison  was  left 
behind. 

Through  mile  after  mile  they  sped  in  silence. 
West  sat  with  his  chin  buried  in  his  coat,  his  keen 
eyes  staring  straight  ahead.  Babbacombe,  at  the 
wheel,  never  glanced  at  him  once. 


42  The  Swindler 

Through  villages,  through  towns,  through  long 
stretches  of  open  country  they  glided,  sometimes 
slackening,  but  never  stopping.  The  sun  broke 
through  at  length,  revealing  a  country  of  hills  and 
woods  and  silvery  running  streams.  They  had 
been  travelling  for  hours.  It  was  nearly  noon. 

For  the  first  time  since  their  start  Babbacombe 
spoke. 

"  I  hope  I  haven't  kept  you  going  too  long.  We 
are  just  getting  in." 

"Don't  mind  me,"  said  West. 

Babbacombe  was  slackening  speed. 

"It's  a  fine  hunting  country,"  he  observed. 

"Whose  is  it?"  asked  West. 

"Mine,  most  of  it."  They  were  running 
smoothly  down  a  long  avenue  of  beech  trees, with 
a  glimpse  of  an  open  gateway  at  the  end. 

"  It  must  take  some  managing, "  remarked  West. 

"It  does,"  Babbacombe  answered.  "It  needs 
a  capable  man." 

They  reached  the  gateway,  passing  under  an 
arch  of  stone.  Beyond  it  lay  wide  stretches  of 
park  land.  Rabbits  scuttled  in  the  sunshine,  and 
under  the  trees  here  and  there  they  had  glimpses 
of  deer. 

"Ever  ridden  to  hounds?"  asked  Babbacombe. 

The  man  beside  him  turned  with  a  movement 
half  savage. 

"Set  me  on  a  good  horse,"  he  said,  "and  I  will 
show  you  what  I  can  do." 

Babbacombe   nodded,    conscious   for   the   first 


The  Swindler's  Handicap  43 

time  of  a  warmth  of  sympathy  for  the  man. 
Whatever  his  sins,  he  must  have  suffered  infernally 
during  the  past  twelve  years. 

Twelve  years!  Ye  gods!  It  was  half  a  life- 
time !  It  represented  the  whole  of  his  manhood  to 
Babbacombe.  Twelve  years  ago  he  had  been  an 
undergraduate  at  Cambridge. 

He  drove  on  through  the  undulating  stretches 
of  Farringdean  Park,  his  favourite  heritage,  trying 
to  realise  what  effect  twelve  years  in  a  convict 
prison  would  have  had  upon  himself,  what  his  out- 
look would  ultimately  have  become,  and  what  in 
actual  fact  was  the  outlook  and  general  attitude  of 
the  man  who  had  come  through  this  long  purga- 
tory. 

Sweeping  round  a  rise  in  the  ground,  they  came 
into  sudden  sight  of  the  castle.  Ancient  and 
splendid  it  rose  before  them,  its  battlements  shining 
in  the  sun — a  heritage  of  which  any  man  might 
be  proud. 

Babbacombe  waited  for  some  word  of  admira- 
tion from  his  companion.  But  he  waited  in  vain. 
West  was  mute. 

"What  do  you  think  of  it?"  he  asked  at  last, 
determined  to  wring  some  meed  of  appreciation 
from  him,  even  though  he  stooped  to  ask  for  it. 

"What— the  house?"  said  West.  "It's  un- 
commonly like  a  primeval  sort  of  prison,  to  my 
idea.  I've  no  doubt  it  boasts  some  very  superior 
dungeons." 

The  sting  in  the  words  reached  Babbacombe, 


44  The  Swindler 

but  without  offence.  Again,  more  strongly,  he 
was  conscious  of  that  glow  of  sympathy  within 
him,  kindling  to  a  flame  of  fellowship. 

"It  boasts  better  things  than  that,"  he  said 
quietly,  "  as  I  hope  you  will  allow  me  to  show  you." 

He  was  conscious  of  the  piercing  gaze  of  West's 
eyes,  and,  after  a  moment,  he  deliberately  turned 
his  own  to  meet  it. 

"And  if  you  find — as  you  probably  soon  will — 
that  I  make  but  a  poor  sort  of  host,"  he  said, 
"just  remember,  will  you,  that  I  like  my  guests  to 
please  themselves,  and  secure  your  own  comfort?" 

For  a  second,  West's  grim  mouth  seemed  to 
hesitate  on  the  edge  of  a  smile — a  smile  that  never 
developed. 

"  I  wonder  how  soon  you  will  tell  me  to  go  to  the 
devil?"  he  said  cynically. 

"  Oh,  I  am  a  better  host  than  that, "  said  Babba- 
combe,  with  quiet  humour.  "If  you  ever  prefer 
the  devil's  hospitality  to  mine,  it  won't  be  my 
fault." 

West  turned  from  him  with  a  slight  shrug  of  the 
shoulders,  as  if  he  deemed  himself  to  be  dealing 
with  a  harmless  lunatic,  and  dropped  back  into 
silence. 

Ill 

Silence  had  become  habitual  to  him,  as  Babba- 
combe  soon  discovered.  He  could  remain  silent 
for  hours.  Probably  he  had  never  been  of  a  very 
expansive  nature,  and  prison  discipline  had 


The  Swindler's  Handicap         45 

strengthened  an  inborn  reticence  to  a  reserve  of 
iron.  He  was  not  a  disconcerting  companion, 
because  he  was  absolutely  unobtrusive,  but  with 
all  the  good-will  in  the  world  Babbacombe  found 
it  well-nigh  impossible  to  treat  him  with  that  ease 
of  manner  which  came  to  him  so  spontaneously 
in  his  dealings  with  other  men. 

Grim,  taciturn,  cynical,  West  baffled  his  every 
effort  to  reach  the  inner  man.  His  silence  clothed 
him  like  armour,  and  he  never  really  emerged  from 
it  save  when  a  fiendish  sense  of  humour  tempted 
him.  This,  and  this  alone,  so  it  seemed  to  Babba- 
combe, had  any  power  to  draw  him  out.  And  the 
instant  he  had  flung  his  gibe  at  the  object  thereof, 
he  would  retreat  again  into  that  impenetrable  shell 
of  silence.  He  never  once  spoke  of  his  past  life, 
never  once  referred  to  the  future. 

He  merely  accepted  Babbacombe's  hospitality 
in  absolute  silence,  without  question,  without 
gratitude,  smoked  his  cigarettes  eternally,  drank 
his  wines  without  appreciation,  rode  his  horses 
without  corrnent. 

The  only  point  in  his  favour  that  Babbacombe, 
the  kindliest  of  critics,  could  discover  after  a  fort- 
night's patient  study,  was  that  the  animals  loved 
him.  He  conducted  himself  like  a  gentleman,  but 
somehow  Babbacombe  had  expected  this  much 
from  the  moment  of  their  meeting.  He  sometimes 
told  himself  with  a  wry  face  that  if  the  fellow  had 
behaved  like  a  beast  he  would  have  found  him 
easier  to  cultivate.  At  least,  he  would  have  had 


46  The  Swindler 

something  to  work  upon,  a  creature  of  flesh  and 
blood,  instead  of  this  inscrutable  statue  wrought 
in  iron. 

With  a  sinking  heart  he  recalled  Cynthia's 
description  of  the  man.  To  a  certain  extent  it 
still  fitted  him,  but  he  imagined  that  those  twelve 
years  had  had  a  hardening  effect  upon  him,  making 
rigid  that  which  had  always  been  stubborn,  driving 
the  iron  deeper  and  ever  deeper  into  his  soul,  till 
only  iron  remained.  Many  were  the  nights  he 
spent  pondering  over  the  romance  of  the  woman  he 
loved.  What  subtle  attraction  in  this  hardened 
sinner  had  lured  her  heart  away?  Was  it  possible 
that  the  fellow  had  ever  cared  for  her?  Had  he 
ever  possessed  even  the  rudiments  of  a  heart? 

The  message  he  had  read  in  the  firelight — the 
brief  line  which  this  man  had  written — was  the 
only  answer  he  could  find  to  these  doubts.  It 
seemed  to  point  to  something — some  pulsing 
warmth — which  could  not  have  been  kindled  from 
nothing.  And  again  the  memory  of  a  woman's 
tears  would  come  upon  him,  spurring  him  to  fresh 
effort.  Surely  the  man  for  whom  she  was  breaking 
her  heart  could  not  be  wholly  evil,  nor  yet  wholly 
callous!  Somewhere  behind  those  steely  blue 
eyes,  there  must  dwell  some  answer  to  the  riddle. 
It  might  be  that  Cynthia  would  find  it,  though  he 
failed.  But  he  shrank,  with  an  aversion  inexpress- 
ible, from  letting  her  try,  so  deeply  rooted  had 
his  conviction  become  that  her  cherished  girlish 
fancy  was  no  more  than  the  misty  gold  of  dreams. 


The  Swindler's  Handicap         47 

Yet  for  her  sake  he  persevered — for  the  sake  of 
those  precious  tears  that  had  so  wrung  his  heart 
he  would  do  that  which  he  had  set  out  to  do,  not- 
withstanding the  utmost  discouragement.  An  in- 
soluble enigma  the  man  might  be  to  him,  but  he 
would  not  lor  that  turn  back  from  the  task  that 
he  had  undertaken.  West  should  have  his  chance 
in  spite  of  it. 

They  were  riding  together  over  the  crisp  turf  of 
the  park  one  frosty  morning  in  November,  when 
Babbacombe  turned  quietly  to  his  companion, 
pointing  to  the  chimneys  of  a  house  half -hidden  by 
trees,  ahead  of  them. 

"I  want  to  go  over  that  place,"  he  said.  "It 
is  standing  empty,  and  probably  needs  repairs." 

West  received  the  announcement  with  a  brief 
nod.  He  never  betrayed  interest  in  anything. 

"Shall  I  hold  your  animal?"  he  suggested,  as 
they  reached  the  gate  that  led  into  the  little 
garden. 

"No.  Come  in  with  me,  won't  you?  We  can 
hitch  the  bridles  to  the  post." 

They  went  in  together  through  a  rustling  litter 
of  dead  leaves.  The  house  was  low,  and  thatched 
— a  picturesque  dwelling  of  no  great  size. 

Babbacombe  led  the  way  within,  and  they  went 
from  room  to  room,  he  with  note-book  in  hand, 
jotting  down  the  various  details  necessary  to 
make  the  place  into  a  comfortable  habitation. 

"I  daresay  you  can  help  me  with  this  if  you 
will, "  he  said  presently.  "  I  shall  turn  some  work- 


48  The  Swindler 

men  on  to  it  next  week.  Perhaps  you  will  keep  an 
eye  on  them  for  me,  decide  on  the  decorations, 
and  so  forth.  It  is  my  agent's  house,  you  know." 

"Where  is  your  agent?"  asked  West  abruptly. 

Babbacombe  smiled  a  little.  "At  the  present 
moment — I  have  no  agent.  That  is  what  keeps 
me  so  busy.  I  hope  to  have  one  before  long." 

West  strolled  to  a  window  and  opened  it,  leaning 
his  arms  upon  the  sill. 

He  seemed  about  to  relapse  into  one  of  his  in- 
terminable silences  when  Babbacombe,  standing 
behind  him,  said  quietly,  "I  am  going  to  offer  the 
post  to  you." 

"To  me?"  West  wheeled  suddenly,  even  with 
vehemence.  "What  for?"  he  demanded  sharply. 

Babbacombe  met  his  look,  still  faintly  smiling. 
"For  our  mutual  benefit,"  he  said.  "I  am  con- 
vinced that  you  have  ample  ability  for  this  sort  of 
work,  and  if  you  will  accept  the  post  I  shall  be 
very  pleased." 

He  stopped  at  that,  determined  for  once  to  make 
the  man  speak  on  his  own  initiative.  West  was 
looking  straight  at  him,  and  there  was  a  curious 
glitter  in  his  eyes  like  the  sparkle  of  ice  in  the  sun. 

When  he  spoke  at  length  his  speech,  though 
curt,  was  not  so  rigorously  emotionless  as  usual. 

"Don't  you  think,"  he  said,  "that  you  have 
carried  this  tomfoolery  of  yours  far  enough?" 

Babbacombe  raised  one  eyebrow.  "  Meaning? " 
he  questioned. 

West  enlightened  him  with  most  unusual  vigour. 


The  Swindler's  Handicap          49 

"Meaning  that  tomfoolery  of  this  sort  never  pays. 
I  know.  I've  done  it  myself  in  my  time.  If  I 
were  you,  I  should  pull  up  and  try  some  less  expen- 
sive hobby  than  that  of  mending  broken  men. 
The  pieces  are  always  chipped  and  never  stick, 
and  the  chances  are  that  you'll  cut  your  fingers 
trying  to  make  'em.  No,  sir,  I  won't  be  your  agent ! 
Find  a  man  you  can  trust,  and  let  me  go  to  the 
devil!" 

The  outburst  was  so  unexpected  and  so  forcible 
that  at  first  Babbacombe  stared  at  the  man  in 
amazement.  Then,  with  that  spontaneous  kind- 
ness of  heart  that  made  him  what  he  was,  he 
grabbed  and  held  his  opportunity. 

"My  dear  fellow,"  he  said,  not  pausing  for  a 
choice  of  words,  "you  are  talking  infernal  rot,  and 
I  won't  listen  to  you.  Do  you  seriously  suppose 
I  should  be  such  a  tenfold  ass  as  to  offer  the 
management  of  my  estate  to  a  man  I  couldn't 
trust?" 

"What  reason  have  you  for  trusting  me?" 
West  thrust  back.  "Unless  you  think  that  a 
dozen  years  in  prison  have  deprived  me  of  my 
ancient  skill.  Would  you  choose  a  man  who 
has  been  a  drunkard  for  your  outler?  No!  Then 
don't  choose  a  swindler  anu  «ui  ex-convict  for  your 
bailiff." 

He  swung  around  with  the  words  and  shut  the 
window  with  a  bang. 

But  again  Babbacombe  took  his  cue  from  that 
inner  prompting  to  which  he  had  trusted  all  his 


50  The  Swindler 

life.  For  the  first  time  he  liked  the  man ;  for  the  first 
time,  so  it  seemed  to  him,  he  caught  a  glimpse  of  the 
soul  into  which  the  iron  had  been  so  deeply  driven. 

" Look  here,  West, "  he  said,  "I  am  not  going  to 
take  that  sort  of  refusal  from  you.  We  have  been 
together  some  time  now,  and  it  isn't  my  fault  if  we 
don't  know  each  other  pretty  well.  I  don't  care 
a  hang  what  you  have  been.  I  am  only  concerned 
with  what  you  are,  and  whatever  that  may  be,  you 
are  not  a  weak-kneed  fool.  You  have  the  power 
to  keep  straight  if  you  choose,  and  you  are  to 
choose.  Understand?  I  make  you  this  offer  with 
a  perfectly  open  mind,  and  you  are  to  consider 
it  in  the  same  way.  Would  you  have  said  because 
you  had  once  had  a  nasty  tumble  that  you  would 
never  ride  again?  Of  course  you  wouldn't.  You 
are  not  such  a  fool.  Then  don't  refuse  my  offer 
on  those  grounds,  for  it's  nothing  less  than  con- 
temptible." 

"Think  so?"  said  West.  He  had  listened  quite 
impassively  to  the  oration,  but  as  Babbacombe 
ended,  his  grim  mouth  relaxed  sardonically.  "You 
seem  mighty  anxious  to  spend  your  money  on 
damaged  goods,  Lord  Babbacombe.  It's  a  tom- 
fool investment,  you  know.  How  many  of  the 
honest  folk  in  your  service  will  stick  to  you  when 
they  begin  to  find  out  what  you've  given  them?" 

"Why  should  they  find  out?"  asked  Babba- 
combe. 

West  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "It's  a  dead 
certainty  that  they  will." 


The  Swindler's  Handicap          51 

"  If  I  can  take  the  risk,  so  can  you, "  said  Babba- 
combe. 

"  Oh,  of  course,  I  used  to  be  rather  good  at  that 
game.  It  is  called  'sand-throwing'  in  the  pro- 
fession." 

Babbacombe  made  an  impatient  movement, 
and  West's  hard  smile  became  more  pronounced. 

"But  you  are  not  at  all  good  at  it, "  he  continued. 
"You  are  almost  obtrusively  obvious.  It  is  a 
charm  that  has  its  very  material  drawbacks." 

Babbacombe  wholly  lost  patience  at  that.  The 
man's  grim  irony  was  not  to  be  borne. 

"Take  it  or  leave  it!"  he  exclaimed.  "But  if 
you  leave  it,  in  heaven's  name  let  it  be  for  some 
sounder  reason  than  a  faked-up  excuse  of  moral 
weakness!" 

West  uttered  an  abrupt  laugh.  "You  seem  to 
have  a  somewhat  exalted  opinion  of  my  morals, " 
he  observed.  "Well,  since  you  are  determined  to 
brave  the  risk  of  being  let  down,  I  needn't  quibble 
at  it  any  further.  I  accept." 

Babbacombe's  attitude  changed  in  an  instant. 
He  held  out  his  hand. 

"You  won't  let  me  down,  West,"  he  said,  with 
confidence. 

West  hesitated  for  a  single  instant,  then  took 
the  proffered  hand  into  a  grip  of  iron.  His  blue 
eyes  looked  hard  and  straight  into  Babbacombe's 
face. 

"If  I  let  you  down, "  he  said  grimly,  "I  shall  be 
underneath." 


52  The  Swindler 

IV 

It  was  not  till  the  middle  of  December  that  the 
new  bailiff  moved  into  his  own  quarters,  but  he  had 
assumed  his  duties  some  weeks  before  that  time, 
and  Babbacombe  was  well  satisfied  with  him. 
The  man's  business  instincts  were  unusually  keen. 
He  had,  moreover,  a  wonderful  eye  for  details,  and 
very  little  escaped  him.  It  soon  came  home  to 
Babbacombe  that  the  management  of  his  estate 
was  in  capable  hands,  and  he  congratulated  him- 
self upon  having  struck  ore  where  he  had  least 
expected  to  find  it.  He  supervised  the  whole  of 
West's  work  for  a  time,  but  he  soon  suffered  this 
vigilance  to  relax,  for  the  man's  shrewdness  far 
surpassed  his  own.  He  settled  to  the  work  with  a 
certain  grim  relish,  and  it  was  a  perpetual  marvel 
to  Babbacombe  that  he  mastered  it  from  the  outset 
with  such  facility. 

Keepers  and  labourers  eyed  him  askance  for 
awhile,  but  West's  imperturbability  took  effect 
before  very  long.  They  accepted  him  without 
enthusiasm,  but  also  without  rancour,  as  a  man 
who  could  hold  his  own. 

As  soon  as  he  was  installed  in  the  bailiff's  house, 
Babbacombe  left  him  to  his  own  devices,  and 
departed  upon  a  round  of  visits.  He  proposed  to 
entertain  a  house-party  himself  towards  the  end  of 
January.  He  informed  West  of  this  before  depart- 
ing, and  was  slightly  puzzled  by  a  certain  humour- 
ous gleam  that  shone  in  the  steely  eyes  at  the  news. 


The  Swindler's  Handicap          53 

The  matter  went  speedily  from  his  mind.  It  was 
not  till  long  after  that  he  recalled  it. 

West  wrote  to  him  regularly  during  his  absence, 
curt,  businesslike  epistles,  which  always  termi- 
nated on  a  grim  note  of  irony:  "Your  faithful 
steward,  N.  V.  West."  He  never  varied  this  joke, 
and  Babbacombe  usually  noted  it  with  a  faint 
frown.  The  fellow  was  not  a  bad  sort,  he  was 
convinced,  but  he  would  always  be  more  or  less 
of  an  enigma  to  him. 

He  returned  to  Farringdean  in  the  middle  of 
January  with  one  of  his  married  sisters,  whom  he 
had  secured  to  act  as  hostess  to  his  party.  He 
invited  West  to  dine  with  them  informally  on  the 
night  of  his  return. 

His  sister,  Lady  Cottesbrook,  a  gay  and  garru- 
lous lady  some  years  his  senior,  received  the  new 
agent  with  considerable  condescension.  She  be- 
stowed scant  attention  upon  him  during  dinner, 
and  West  presented  his  most  impenetrable  de- 
meanour in  consequence,  refusing  steadily  to 
avail  himself  of  Babbacombe's  courteous  efforts 
to  draw  him  into  the  conversation. 

He  would  have  excused  himself  later  from 
accompanying  his  host  into  the  drawing-room, 
but  Babbacombe  insisted  upon  this  so  stubbornly 
that  finally,  with  his  characteristic  lift  of  the 
shoulders,  he  yielded. 

As  they  entered,  Lady  Cottesbrook  raised  her 
glasses,  and  favoured  him  with  a  close  scrutiny. 

"It's  very  curious,"  she  said,  "but  I  can't  help 


54  The  Swindler 

feeling  as  if  I  have  seen  you  somewhere  before. 
You  have  the  look  of  some  one  I  knew  years  ago — 
some  one  I  didn't  like — but  I  can't  remember 
who." 

"Just  as  well,  perhaps, "  said  Babbacombe,  with 
a  careless  laugh,  though  a  faint  flush  of  annoyance 
rose  in  his  face.  "Come  over  here,  West.  You 
can  smoke.  My  sister  likes  it." 

He  seated  himself  at  the  piano,  indicated  a 
chair  near  him  to  his  guest,  and  began  to  play. 

West,  with  his  back  to  the  light,  sat  motionless, 
listening.  Lady  Cottesbrook  took  up  a  book,  and 
ignored  him.  There  was  something  unfathomable 
about  her  brother's  bailiff  to  which  she  strongly 
objected. 

An  hot-"  later,  when  he  had  gone,  she  spoke  of 
it. 

"That  man  has  the  eyes  of  a  criminal,  Jack.  I 
am  sure  he  isn't  trustworthy.  He  is  too  brazen. 
Where  in  the  world  did  you  pick  him  up?" 

To  which  Babbacombe  made  composed  reply : 

"I  know  all  about  him,  and  he  is  absolutely 
trustworthy.  He  was  recommended  to  me  by  a 
friend.  I  am  sorry  you  thought  it  necessary  to  be 
rude  to  him.  There  is  nothing  offensive  about  him 
that  I  can  see." 

"My  dear  boy,  you  see  nothing  offensive  in  a 
great  many  people  whom  I  positively  detest. 
However,  he  isn't  worth  an  argument.  Only,  if 
you  must  ask  the  man  to  dine,  for  goodness '  sake 
another  time  have  some  one  else  for  me  to  talk  to. 


The  Swindler's  Handicap          55 

I  frankly  admit  that  I  have  no  talent  for  enter- 
taining people  of  that  class.  Now  tell  me  the 
latest  about  Cynthia  Mortimer.  Of  course,  she 
is  one  of  the  chosen  guests?" 

"She  has  promised  to  spend  a  week  here," 
Babbacombe  answered  somewhat  reluctantly.  "I 
haven't  seen  her  lately.  She  has  been  in  Paris." 

"What  has  she  been  doing  there?  Buying  her 
trousseau?" 

"I  really  don't  know."  There  was  a  faint 
inflection  of  irritation  in  his  voice. 

"Doesn't  her  consenting  to  come  here  mean 
that  she  will  accept  you? "  questioned  Lady  Cottes- 
brook.  She  never  hesitated  to  ask  in  plainest 
terms  for  anything  she  wanted. 

"No,"  Babbacombe  said  heavily.  "It  does 
not." 

Lady  Cottesbrook  was  silenced.  After  a  little 
she  turned  her  attention  to  other  matters,  to  her 
brother's  evident  relief. 


It  was  on  a  still,  frosty  evening  of  many  stars 
that  Cynthia  came  to  Farringdean  Castle.  A 
young  moon  was  low  in  the  sky,  and  she  paused  to 
curtsey  to  it  upon  descending  from  the  motor 
that  had  borne  her  thither. 

She  turned  to  find  Babbacombe  beside  her. 

"I  hope  it  will  bring  you  luck,  Cynthia,"  he 
said. 


56  The  Swindler 

She  flashed  a  swift  look  at  him,  and  gave  him 
both  her  hands. 

"Thank  you,  old  friend,"  she  said  softly. 

Her  eyes  were  shining  like  the  stars  above  them. 
She  laughed  a  little  tremulously. 

"I  couldn't  get  to  the  station  to  meet  you,"  he 
said.  "I  wanted  to.  Come  inside.  There  is  no 
one  here  whom  you  don't  know." 

"Thank  you  again,"  she  said. 

In  another  moment  they  were  entering  the 
great  hall.  Before  an  immense  open  fireplace  a 
group  of  people  were  gathered  at  tea.  There  was 
a  general  buzz  of  greeting  as  Cynthia  entered. 
She  was  always  popular,  wherever  she  went. 

She  scattered  her  own  greetings  broadcast, 
passing  from  one  to  another,  greeting  each  in  her 
high,  sweet  drawl — a  gracious,  impulsive  woman 
whom  to  know  was  to  love. 

Babbacombe  watched  her  with  a  dumb  longing. 
How  often  he  had  pictured  her  as  hostess  where 
now  she  moved  as  guest !  Well,  that  dream  of  his 
was  shattered,  but  the  glowing  fragments  yet 
burned  in  his  secret  heart.  All  his  life  long  he 
would  remember  her  as  he  saw  her  that  night  on 
his  own  hearth.  Her  loveliness  was  like  a  flower 
wide  open  to  the  sun.  He  thought  her  lovelier 
that  night  than  she  had  ever  been  before.  When 
she  flitted  away  at  length,  he  felt  as  if  she  took 
the  warmth  and  brightness  of  the  fireside  with 
her. 

There  was  no  agreement  between  them,  but  he 


The  Swindler's  Handicap          57 

knew  that  she  would  be  down  early,  and  hastened 
his  own  dressing  in  consequence.  He  found  her 
waiting  alone  in  the  drawing-room  before  a  regal 
fire.  She  wore  a  splendid  star  of  diamonds  in  her 
dark  hair.  It  sparkled  in  a  thousand  colours  as 
she  turned.  Her  dress  was  black,  unrelieved  by 
any  ornament. 

"Cynthia,"  he  said,  "you  are  exquisite!" 

The  words  burst  from  him  almost  involuntarily. 
She  put  out  her  hand  to  him  with  a  gesture  half  of 
acknowledgment,  half  of  protest. 

"I  may  be  good  to  look  at,"  she  said,  with  a 
little  whimsical  smile.  "But — I  tell  you,  Jack — 
I  feel  a  perfect  reptile.  It's  heads  I  win,  tails  you 
lose;  and — I  just  can't  bear  it." 

There  was  a  catch  in  the  high  voice  that  was 
almost  a  sob.  Babbacombe  took  her  hand  and 
held  it. 

"My  dear,"  he  said,  "it's  nothing  of  the  sort. 
You  have  done  me  the  very  great  honour  of  giving 
me  your  full  confidence,  and  I  won't  have  you 
abusing  yourself  for  it." 

She  shook  her  head.  "I  hate  myself — there! 
And — and  I'm  frightened  too.  Jack,  if  you  want 
me  to  marry  you — you  had  better  ask  me  now.  I 
won't  refuse  you." 

He  looked  her  closely  in  the  eyes.  "No, 
Cynthia,"  he  said  very  gravely. 

"I  am  not  laughing,"  she  protested. 

He  smiled  a  little.  "It  would  be  easier  for  me 
if  you  were,"  he  said.  "No,  we  will  go  through 


58  The  Swindler 

with  this  since  we  have  begun.  And  you  needn't 
be  scared.  He  is  hardly  a  ladies'  man,  according 
to  my  judgment,  but  he  is  not  a  bounder.  I 
haven't  asked  him  to  meet  you  to-night.  I 
thought  it  better  not.  In  fact,  I— 

He  broke  off  at  the  sound  of  a  step  behind  him. 
With  a  start  Cynthia  turned. 

A  short,  thick-set  man  in  riding-dress  was  walk- 
ing up  the  room. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said  formally,  halting 
a  few  paces  from  Babbacombe.  "I  have  been 
waiting  for  you  in  the  library  for  the  last  hour.  I 
sent  you  a  message,  but  I  conclude  it  was  not 
delivered.  Can  I  speak  to  you  for  a  few  seconds 
on  a  matter  of  business?" 

He  spoke  with  his  eyes  fixed  steadily  upon  Bab- 
bacombe's  face,  ignoring  the  woman's  presence 
as  if  he  had  not  even  seen  her. 

Babbacombe  was  momentarily  disconcerted. 
He  glanced  at  Cynthia  before  replying;  and  in- 
instantly,  in  her  quick,  gracious  way,  she  came  for- 
ward with  extended  hand. 

"Why,  Mr.  West,"  she  said,  "don't  you  know 
me?  I'm  Cynthia  Mortimer — a  very  old  friend 
of  yours.  And  I'm  very  glad  to  meet  you 
again." 

There  was  a  quiver  as  of  laughter  in  her  words. 
The  confidence  of  her  action  compelled  some 
species  of  response.  West  took  the  outstretched 
hand  for  a  single  instant;  but  his  eyes,  meeting 
hers,  held  no  recognition. 


The  Swindler's  Handicap          59 

"I  am  afraid,"  he  said  stonily,  "that  your 
memory  is  better  than  mine." 

It  was  a  check  that  would  have  disheartened 
many  women;  not  so  Cynthia  Mortimer. 

She  opened  her  eyes  wide  for  a  second,  the  next 
quite  openly  she  laughed  at  him. 

"  You  are  not  a  bit  cleverer  than  you  used  to  be, " 
she  said.  "But  I  rather  like  you  for  it  all  the 
same.  Come,  Mr.  West,  I'm  sure  you  will  make 
an  effort  when  I  tell  you  that  I  want  to  be  remem- 
bered. You  once  did  a  big  thing  for  me  which  I 
have  never  forgotten — which  I  never  shall  forget." 

West  was  frowning.  "You  have  made  a  mis- 
take," he  said  briefly. 

She  laughed  again,  softly,  audaciously.  There 
was  a  delicate  flush  on  her  face,  and  her  eyes  were 
very  bright. 

"No,  Mr.  Nat  Verney  West,"  she  said,  sinking 
her  voice.  "I'm  a  lot  cleverer  than  you  think, 
and  I  don't  make  mistakes  of  that  sort." 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  was  silent.  She 
was  laughing  still. 

"Why  can't  we  begin  where  we  left  -off?"  she 
asked  ingenuously.  "Back  numbers  are  so  dull, 
and  we  were  long  past  this  stage  anyway.  Lord 
Babbacombe, "  appealing  suddenly  to  her  host, 
"can't  you  persuade  Mr.  West  to  come  to  the 
third  act?  I  always  prefer  to  skip  the  second. 
And  we  finished  the  first  long  ago." 

Babbacombe  came  to  her  assistance  with  his 
courteous  smile.  "Miss  Mortimer  considers  her- 


6o  The  Swindler 

self  in  your  debt,  Mr.  West, "  he  said.  "  I  think 
you  will  hurt  her  feelings  if  you  try  to  repudiate 
her  obligation." 

"Yes,  of  course,"  laughed  Cynthia.  "It  was  a 
mighty  big  debt,  and  I  have  been  wondering  ever 
since  how  to  get  even  with  you.  Oh,  you  needn't 
scowl.  That  doesn't  hurt  me  at  all.  Do  you  know 
you  haven't  altered  a  mite,  you  funny  English 
bulldog?  Come,  you  know  me  now?" 

"Yes,  I  know  you,"  West  said.  "But  I  think 
it  is  a  pity  that  you  have  renewed  your  acquaint- 
ance with  me,  and  the  sooner  you  drop  me  again 
the  better."  He  spoke  briefly  and  very  decidedly, 
and  having  thus  expressed  himself  he  turned  to 
Babbacombe.  "I  am  going  to  the  library.  Per- 
haps you  will  join  me  there  at  your  convenience." 

With  an  abrupt  bow  to  Cynthia,  he  turned 
to  go.  But  instantly  the  high  voice  arrested  him. 

"Mr.  West!" 

He  paused. 

"Mr.  West!"  she  said  again,  her  voice  half- 
imperious,  half -pleading. 

Reluctantly  he  faced  round.  She  was  waiting 
for  him  with  a  little  smile  quivering  about  her 
mouth.  Her  grey  eyes  met  his  with  perfect  com- 
posure. 

"I  want  to  know, "  she  said,  in  her  softest  drawl, 
"if  it  is  for  my  sake  or  your  own  that  you  regret 
this  renewal  of  acquaintance." 

"For  yours,  Miss  Mortimer,"  he  answered 
grimly. 


The  Swindler's  Handicap          61 

"  That's  very  kind  of  you, "  she  rejoined.  "  And 
why?" 

Again  he  gave  that  slight  lift  of  the  shoulders 
that  she  remembered  so  well. 

"You  know  the  proverb  about  touching  pitch?" 

"Some  people  like  pitch,"  said  Cynthia. 

"Not  clean  people,"  threw  back  West. 

"  No?  "  she  said.  "Well,  perhaps  not.  Anyway, 
it  doesn't  apply  in  this  case.  So  I  sha'n't  drop  you, 
Mr.  West,  thank  you  all  the  same !  Good-night ! " 

She  offered  him  her  hand  with  a  gesture  that  was 
nothing  short  of  regal.  And  he — because  he  could 
do  no  less — took  it,  gripped  it,  and  went  his  way. 

"Isn't  he  rude?"  murmured  Cynthia;  and  she 
said  it  as  if  rudeness  were  the  highest  virtue  a  man 
could  display. 

VI 

The  early  winter  dusk  was  falling  upon  a  world 
veiled  in  cold,  drifting  rain.  Away  in  the  distance 
where  the  castle  stood,  many  lights  had  begun  to 
glimmer.  It  was  the  cosy  hour  when  sportsmen 
collect  about  the  fireside  with  noisy  talk  of  the 
day's  achievements. 

The  man  who  strode  down  the  long,  dark  avenue 
towards  the  bailiff's  house  smiled  bitterly  to  him- 
self as  he  marked  the  growing  illumination.  It 
was  four  days  since  Cynthia  Mortimer  had  ex- 
tended to  him  the  hand  of  friendship,  and  he  had 
not  seen  her  since.  He  was,  in  fact,  studiously 


62  The  Swindler 

avoiding  her,  more  studiously  than  he  had  ever 
avoided  any  one  in  his  life  before.  His  daily  visits 
to  the  castle  he  now  paid  early  in  the  morning, 
before  Babbacombe  himself  was  dressed,  long 
before  any  of  the  guests  were  stirring.  And  his 
refusal  either  to  dine  at  the  castle  or  to  join  the 
sportsmen  during  the  day  was  so  prompt  and  so 
emphatic  that  Babbacombe  had  refrained  from 
pressing  his  invitation. 

Not  a  word  had  passed  between  them  upon  the 
subject  of  Cynthia's  recognition.  West  adhered 
strictly  to  business  during  his  brief  interviews  with 
his  chief.  The  smallest  digression  on  Babba- 
combe's  part  he  invariably  ignored  as  unworthy  of 
his  attention,  till  even  Babbacombe,  with  all  his 
courtly  consideration  for  others,  began  to  regard 
him  as  a  mere  automaton,  and  almost  to  treat 
him  as  such. 

Had  he  realised  in  the  faintest  degree  what  West 
was  enduring  at  that  time,  his  heart  must  have 
warmed  to  the  man,  despite  his  repellent  exterior. 
But  he  had  no  means  of  realising. 

The  rust  of  twelve  bitter  years  had  corroded  the 
bolts  of  that  closed  door  behind  which  the  swindler 
hid  his  lonely  soul,  and  it  was  not  in  the  power  of 
any  man  to  move  them. 

So  grimly  he  went  his  silent  way,  cynical,  as  only 
those  can  be  to  whom  the  best  thing  in  life  has  been 
offered  too  late;  proud,  also,  after  his  curious,  iron- 
clad fashion,  refusing  sternly  to  bear  a  lance  again 
in  that  field  which  had  witnessed  his  dishonour. 


The  Swindler's  Handicap          63 

He  knew  very  well  what  those  twinkling  lights 
denoted.  He  could  almost  hear  the  clatter  round 
the  tea-table,  the  witless  jests  of  the  youngsters, 
the  careless  laughter  of  the  women,  the  trivial, 
merry  nonsense  that  was  weaving  another  hour  of 
happiness  into  the  golden  skein  of  happy  hours. 
Contemptible,  of  course!  Vanity  of  vanities! 
But  how  infinitely  precious  is  even  such  vanity  as 
this  to  those  who  stand  outside! 

The  rain  was  beginning  to  patter  through  the 
trees.  It  would  be  a  wet  night.  With  his  collar 
turned  up  to  his  ears,  he  trudged  forward.  He 
cared  little  for  the  rain.  For  twelve  long  years  he 
had  lived  an  outdoor  life. 

There  were  no  lights  visible  in  his  own  abode. 
The  old  woman  who  kept  his  house  was  doubtless 
gossiping  with  some  crony  up  at  the  castle. 

With  his  hand  on  the  garden  gate,  he  looked  back 
at  its  distant,  shining  front.  Then,  with  a  shrug, 
as  if  impatient  with  himself  for  lingering,  he  turned 
to  walk  up  the  short,  flagged  pathway  that  led  to 
his  own  door. 

At  the  same  instant  a  cry  of  pain — a  woman's 
cry — came  sharply  through  the  dripping  stillness 
of  the  trees.  He  turned  back  swiftly,  banging 
the  gate  behind  him. 

A  long  slope  rose,  tree-covered,  from  the  other 
side  of  the  road.  He  judged  the  sound  to  have 
come  from  that  direction,  and  he  hurried  towards 
it  with  swinging  strides.  Reaching  the  deep 
shadow,  he  paused,  peering  upwards. 


64  The  Swindler 

At  once  a  voice  he  knew  called  to  him,  but  in 
such  accents  of  agony  that  he  hardly  recognised  it. 

"  Oh,  come  and  help  me !  I'm  here — caught  in  a 
trap!  I  can't  move!" 

In  a  moment  he  was  crashing  through  the  un- 
dergrowth with  the  furious  recklessness  of  a  wild 
animal. 

"I  am  coming!  Keep  still!"  he  shouted  as  he 
went. 

He  found  her  crouched  in  a  tiny  hollow  close  to  a 
narrow  footpath  that  ran  through  the  wood.  She 
was  on  her  knees,  but  she  turned  a  deathly  face  up 
to  him  as  he  reached  her.  She  was  sobbing  like  a 
child. 

"They  are  great  iron  teeth,"  she  gasped, 
"fastened  in  my  hand.  Can  you  open  them?" 

"Don't  move!"  he  ordered,  as  he  dropped  down 
beside  her. 

It  was  a  poacher's  trap,  fortunately  of  a  species 
with  which  he  was  acquainted.  Her  hand  was 
fairly  gripped  between  the  iron  jaws.  He  won- 
dered with  a  set  face  if  those  cruel  teeth  had  met 
in  her  delicate  flesh. 

She  screamed  as  he  forced  it  open,  and  fell  back 
shuddering,  half-fainting,  while  he  lifted  her  torn 
hand  and  examined  it  in  the  failing  light. 

It  was  bleeding  freely,  but  not  violently,  and  he 

saw  with  relief  that  the  larger  veins  had  escaped. 

He  wrapped  his  handkerchief  round  it,  and  spoke : 

"Come!"  he  said.     " My  house  is  close  by.     It 

had  better  be  bathed  at  once." 


The  Swindler's  Handicap  65 

"Yes,"  she  assented  shakily. 

"Don't  cry!"  he  said,  with  blunt  kindliness. 

"I  can't  help  it,"  whispered  Cynthia. 

He  helped  her  to  her  feet,  but  she  trembled  so 
much  that  he  put  his  arm  about  her. 

"It's  only  a  stone's  throw  away,"  he  said. 

She  went  with  him  without  question.  She 
seemed  dazed  with  pain. 

Silently  he  led  her  down  to  his  dark  abode. 

"I'm  giving  you  a  lot  of  trouble,"  she  mur- 
mured, as  they  entered. 

To  which  he  made  gruff  reply: 

"It's  worse  for  you  than  for  me!" 

He  put  her  into  an  easy  chair,  lighted  a  lamp, 
and  departed  for  a  basin  of  water. 

When  he  returned,  she  had  so  far  mastered  her- 
self as  to  be  able  to  smile  at  him  through  her 
tears. 

"I  know  I'm  a  drivelling  idiot  to  cry!"  she  said, 
her  voice  high  and  tremulous.  "But  I  never  felt 
so  sick  before!" 

"Don't  apologise,"  said  West  briefly.  "I 
know." 

He  bathed  the  injury  with  the  utmost  tender- 
ness, while  she  sat  and  watched  his  stern  face. 

"My!"  she  said  suddenly,  with  a  little,  shaky 
laugh.  "You  are  being  very  good  to  me,  but  why 
do  you  frown  like  that?" 

He  glanced  at  her  with  those  piercing  eyes  of  his. 

"How  did  you  do  it?" 

The  colour  came  into  her  white  face. 


66  The  Swindler 

"I — was  trying  to  spring  the  trap,"  she  said, 
eyeing  him  doubtfully.  "I  didn't  like  to  think  of 
one  of  those  cute  little  rabbits  getting  caught." 

"  Yes,  but  how  did  you  manage  to  get  your  hand 
in  the  way?"  said  West. 

She  considered  this  problem  for  a  little. 

"I  guess  I  can't  explain  that  mystery  to  you," 
she  said,  at  length.  "You  see,  I'm  only  a  woman, 
and  women  often  do  things  that  are  very 
foolish." 

West's  silence  seemed  to  express  tacit  agreement 
with  this  assertion. 

"Anyway,"  she  resumed,  making  a  wry  face, 
"it's  done.  You  are  not  vexed  because  I  made 
such  a  fuss?" 

There  was  an  odd  wistfulness  in  her  tone.  West, 
busy  bandaging,  did  not  raise  his  eyes. 

"I  don't  blame  you  for  that,"  he  said.  "It 
must  have  hurt  you  infernally!  If  you  take  my 
advice,  you  will  show  it  to  a  doctor." 

She  screwed  her  face  up  a  second  time. 

"To  please  you,  Mr.  West?" 

"No,"  he  responded  curtly.  "As  a  sensible 
precaution." 

"And  if  I  don't  happen  to  be  remarkable  for 
sense?"  she  suggested. 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"Yes,  I  know,"  said  Cynthia.  "You  say  that 
to  everything.  It's  getting  rather  monotonous. 
And  I'm  sure  I'm  very  patient.  You'll  grant  me 
that,  at  least?" 


The  Swindler's  Handicap          67 

He  turned  his  ice-blue  eyes  upon  her. 

"I  am  not  good  at  paying  compliments,  Miss 
Mortimer,"  he  said  cynically.  "Twelve  years  in 
prison  have  rusted  all  my  little  accomplishments." 

She  met  his  look  with  a  smile,  though  her  lips 
were  quivering  still. 

"My!  What  a  pity'"  she  said.  "Has  your 
heart  got  rusty,  too?" 

"Very,"  said  West  shortly. 

"Can't  you  rub  it  off?"  she  questioned. 

He  uttered  his  ironic  laugh. 

"There  wouldn't  be  anything  left  if  I  did." 

"No?"  she  said  whimsically.  "Well,  give  it  to 
me,  and  let  me  see  what  I  can  do!" 

His  eyes  fell  away  from  her,  and  the  grim  line  of 
his  jaw  hardened  perceptibly. 

"That  would  be  too  hard  a  job  even  for  you!" 
he  said. 

She  rose  and  put  out  her  free  hand  to  him.  Her 
eyes  were  very  soft  and  womanly.  A  quaint  little 
smile  yet  hovered  about  her  lips. 

"I  guess  I'll  have  a  try,"  she  said  gently. 

He  did  not  touch  her  hand,  nor  would  he  again 
meet  her  eyes. 

"A  hopeless  task,  I  am  afraid,"  he  said.  "And 
utterly  unprofitable  to  all  concerned.  I  am  not  a 
deserving  object  for  your  charity." 

She  laughed  a  trifle  breathlessly. 

"Say,  Mr.  West,  couldn't  you  put  that  into 
words  of  one  syllable?  You  try,  and  perhaps  then 
I'll  listen  to  you,  and  give  you  my  views  as  well." 


68  The  Swindler 

But  West  remained  rigorously  unresponsive. 
It  was  as  if  he  were  thinking  of  other  things. 

Cynthia  uttered  a  little  sigh  and  turned  to  go. 

"Good-bye,  Mr.  West!"  she  said. 

He  went  with  her  to  the  door. 

"Shall  I  walk  back  with  you?"  he  asked  for- 
mally. 

She  shook  her  head. 

"No.  I'm  better  now,  and  it's  quite  light  still 
beyond  the  trees.  Good-bye,  and — thank  you!" 

"Good-bye!"  he  said. 

He  followed  her  to  the  gate,  opened  it  for  her, 
and  stood  there  watching  till  he  saw  her  emerge 
from  the  shadow  cast  by  the  overarching  trees. 
Then — for  he  knew  that  the  rest  of  the  journey 
was  no  more  than  a  few  minutes'  easy  walk — he 
turned  back  into  the  house,  and  shut  himself  in. 

Entering  the  room  he  had  just  quitted,  he  locked 
the  door,  and  there  he  remained  for  a  long,  long 
time. 


VII 


It  was  not  till  she  descended  to  dinner  that 
Cynthia's  injured  hand  was  noticed. 

She  resolutely  made  light  of  it  to  all  sympathisers 
but  it  was  plain  to  Babbacombe,  at  least,  that  it 
gave  her  considerable  pain. 

"Let  me  send  for  a  doctor,"  he  whispered,  as 
she  finally  passed  his  chair. 

But  she  shook  her  head  with  a  smile. 


The  Swindler's  Handicap          69 


"No,  no.     It  will  be  all  right  in  the  morning/' 

But  when  he  saw  her  in  the  morning,  he  knew  at 
once  that  this  prophecy  had  not  been  fulfilled. 
She  met  his  anxious  scrutiny  with  a  smile  indeed, 
but  her  heavy  eyes  belied  it.  He  knew  that  she 
had  spent  a  sleepless  night. 

"It  wasn't  my  hand  that  kept  me  awake,"  she 
protested,  when  he  charged  her  with  this. 

But  Babbacombe  was  dissatisfied. 

"Do  see  a  doctor.  I  am  sure  it  ought  to  be 
properly  dressed,"  he  urged.  "I'll  take  you  my- 
self in  the  motor,  if  you  will."  ( 
^  She  yielded  at  length  to  his  persuasion,  though 
plainly  against  her  will,  and  an  hour  later  they 
drove  off  together,  leaving  the  rest  of  the  party  to 
follow  the  hounds. 

At  the  park  gate  they  overtook  West,  walking 
swiftly.  He  raised  his  hat  as  they  went  by,  but 
did  not  so  much  as  look  at  Cynthia. 

A  sudden  silence  fell  upon  her,  and  it  was  not 
till  some  minutes  had  passed  that  she  broke  it. 

"  Shall  I  tell  you  what  kept  me  awake  last  night, 
Jack?"  she  said  then.  "I  think  you  have  a  right 
to  know." 

He  glanced  at  her,  encountering  one  of  those 
smiles,  half-sad,  half  -humorous,  that  he  knew  so 
well.  "You  will  do  exactly  as  you  please,"  he 
said. 

"You're  generous,"  she  responded.  "Well, 
I'll  tell  you.  I  was  busy  burying  my  poor  foolish 
little  romance." 


70  The  Swindler 

A  deep  glow  showed  suddenly  upon  Babba- 
combe's  face.  He  was  driving  slowly,  but  he  kept 
his  eyes  fixed  steadily  upon  the  stretch  of  muddy 
road  ahead. 

"Is  it  dead,  then?"  he  asked,  his  voice  very  low. 

She  made  a  quaint  gesture  as  of  putting  some- 
thing from  her. 

"Yes,  quite;  and  buried  decently  without  any 
fuss.  The  blinds  are  up  again,  and  I  don't  want 
any  condolences.  I'm  going  out  into  the  sun, 
Jack.  I'm  going  to  live." 

"And  what  about  me?"  said  Babbacombe. 

She  turned  in  her  quick  way,  and  laid  her  hand 
upon  his  knee. 

"Yes,  I've  been  thinking  about  you.  I  am 
going  back  to  London  to-morrow,  and  the  first 
thing  I  shall  do  will  be  to  find  you  a  really  good 
wife." 

"Thank  you,"  he  said,  smiling  a  little.  "But 
you  needn't  go  to  London  for  that." 

"Oh,  shucks!"  said  Cynthia,  colouring  deeply. 
"There's  more  than  one  woman  in  the  world, 
Jack." 

"Not  for  me,"  he  said  quietly. 

She  was  silent  for  a  space.     Then: 

"And  if  that  one  woman  is  such  a  sublime  fool, 
such  an  ungrateful  little  beast,  as  not  to  be  able 
to — to  love  you  as  you  deserve  to  be  loved?"  she 
suggested,  a  slight  break  in  her  voice. 

He  turned  his  head  at  that,  and  looked  for  an 
instant  straight  into  her  eyes. 


The  Swindler's  Handicap          71 

"  She  is  still  the  one  woman,  dear, "  he  said,  very 
tenderly.  ' '  Always  remember  that. ' ' 

She  shook  her  head  in  protest.  Her  lips  were 
quivering  too  much  for  speech. 

Babbacombe  drove  slowly  on  in  silence. 

At  last  the  hand  upon  his  knee  pressed  slightly. 

"You  can  have  her  if  you  like,  Jack,"  Cynthia 
murmured.  "She's  going  mighty  cheap." 

He  freed  his  hand  for  a  moment  to  grasp  hers. 

"I  shall  follow  her  to  London,"  he  said,  "and 
woo  her  there." 

She  smiled  at  him  gratefully  and  began  to  speak 
of  other  things. 

The  doctor  was  out,  to  her  evident  relief. 
Babbacombe  wanted  to  go  in  search  of  another, 
but  she  would  not  be  persuaded. 

"I'm  sure  it  will  be  all  right  to-morrow.  If  not, 
I  shall  be  in  town,  and  I  can  go  to  a  doctor  there. 
Please  don't  make  a  fuss  about  it.  It's  too 
absurd." 

Reluctantly  he  abandoned  the  argument,  and 
they  followed  the  hounds  in  the  motor  instead. 

VIII 

Babbacombe's  guests  departed  upon  the  follow- 
ing day.  Cynthia  was  among  the  first  to  leave. 
With  a  flushed  face  and  sparkling  eyes  she  made 
her  farewells,  and  even  Babbacombe,  closely  as  he 
observed  her,  detected  no  hint  of  strain  in  her 
demeanour. 

Returning  from  the  station  in  the  afternoon  after 


72  The  Swindler 


speeding  some  of  his  guests,  he  dropped  into  the 
local  bank  to  change  a  cheque.  The  manager, 
with  whom  he  was  intimate,  chanced  to  be  present, 
and  led  him  off  to  his  own  room. 

"By  the  way,"  he  said,  "we  were  just  going  to 
send  you  notice  of  an  overdraft.  That  last  big 
cheque  of  yours  has  left  you  a  deficit." 

Babbacombe  stared  at  him.  He  had  barely  a 
fortnight  before  deposited  a  large  sum  of  money  at 
the  bank,  and  he  had  not  written  any  large  cheque 
since. 

"I  don't  understand,"  he  said.  "What 
cheque?" 

The  manager  looked  at  him  sharply. 

"Why,  the  cheque  for  two  hundred  and  fifty 
pounds,  which  your  agent  presented  yesterday," 
he  said.  "It  bore  your  signature  and  was  dated 
the  previous  day.  You  wrote  it,  I  suppose?" 

Babbacombe  was  still  staring  blankly,  but  at  the 
sudden  question  he  pulled  himself  together. 

"Oh,  that !  Yes,  to  be  sure.  Careless  of  me.  I 
gave  him  a  blank  cheque  for  the  Millsand  estate 
expenses  some  weeks  ago.  It  must  have  been 
that." 

But  though  he  spoke  with  a  smiling  face,  his 
heart  had  gone  suddenly  cold  with  doubt.  He 
knew  full  well  that  the  expenses  of  which  he  spoke 
had  been  paid  by  West  long  before. 

He  refused  to  linger,  and  went  out  again  after  a 
few  commonplaces,  feeling  as  if  he  had  been 
struck  a  stunning  blow  between  the  eyes. 


The  Swindler's  Handicap          73 

Driving  swiftly  back  through  the  park,  he 
recovered  somewhat  from  the  shock.  There  must 
be — surely  there  would  be ! — some  explanation. 

Reaching  West's  abode  he  stopped  the  motor 
and  descended.  West  was  not  in  and  he  decided 
to  wait  for  him,  chafing  at  the  delay. 

Standing  at  the  window,  he  presently  saw  the 
man  coming  up  the  path.  He  moved  slowly,  with 
a  certain  heaviness,  as  though  weary. 

As  he  opened  the  outer  door,  Babbacombe  opened 
the  inner  and  met  him  in  the  hall. 

"  I  dropped  in  to  have  a  word  with  you,"  he  said. 

West  paused  momentarily  before  shutting  the 
door.  His  face  was  in  shadow. 

"I  thought  so, "  he  said.     " I  saw  the  motor." 

Babbacombe  turned  back  into  the  room.  He 
was  grappling  with  the  hardest  task  he  had  ever 
had  to  tackle.  West  followed  him  in  absolute 
silence. 

With  an  immense  effort,  Babbacombe  spoke : 

"I  was  at  the  bank  just  now.  I  went  to  get 
some  cash.  I  was  told  that  my  account  was  over- 
drawn. I  can't  understand  it.  There  seems  to 
have  been  some  mistake." 

He  paused,  but  West  said  nothing  whatever. 
The  light  was  beginning  to  fail,  but  his  expression- 
less face  was  clearly  visible.  It  held  neither 
curiosity  nor  dismay. 

"I  was  told,"  Babbacombe  said  again,  "that 
you  cashed  a  cheque  of  mine  yesterday  for  two 
hundred  and  fifty  pounds.  Is  that  so?" 


74  The  Swindler 

"It  is,"  said  West  curtly. 

"And  yet,"  Babbacombe  proceeded,  "I  under- 
stood from  you  that  the  Millsand  estate  business 
was  settled  long  ago." 

"It  was,"  said  West. 

"  Then  this  cheque — this  cheque  for  two  hundred 
and  fifty  pounds — where  did  it  come  from,  West?" 
There  was  a  note  of  entreaty  in  Babbacombe's 
voice. 

West  jerked  up  his  head  at  the  sound.  It  was 
a  gesture  openly  contemptuous.  "Can't  you 
guess?"  he  said. 

Babbacombe  stiffened  at  the  callous  question. 
"You  refuse  to  answer  me?"  he  asked. 

"That  is  my  answer,"  said  West. 

"I  am  to  understand  then  that  you  have  robbed 
me — that  you  have  forged  my  signature  to  do  so — 
that  you — great  heavens,  man" — Babbacombe's 
amazement  burst  forth  irresistibly — "it's  incredi- 
ble! Are  you  mad,  I  wonder?  You  can't  have 
done  it  in  your  sober  senses.  You  would  never 
have  been  so  outrageously  clumsy." 

West  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"I  am  quite  sane — only  a  little  out  of  practice." 

His  words  were  like  a  shower  of  icy  water. 
Babbacombe  contracted  instantly. 

"You  wish  me  to  believe  that  you  did  this  thing 
in  cold  blood — that  you  deliberately  meant  to  do 
it?" 

"Certainly  I  meant  to  do  it,"  said  West. 

"Why?"  said  Babbacombe. 


The  Swindler's  Handicap          75 

Again  he  gave  the  non-committal  shrug,  no 
more.  There  was  almost  a  fiendish  look  in  his 
eyes,  as  if  somewhere  in  his  soul  a  demon  leaped 
and  jeered. 

"Tell  me  why,"  Babbacombe  persisted. 

"Why  should  I  tell  you?"  said  West. 

Babbacombe  hesitated  for  an  instant;  then 
gravely,  kindly,  he  made  reply: 

"For  the  sake  of  the  friendship  that  has  been 
between  us.  I  had  not  the  faintest  idea  that  you 
were  in  need  of  money.  Why  couldn't  you  tell 
me?" 

West  made  a  restless  movement.  For  the  first 
time  his  hard  stare  shifted  from  Babbacombe's 
face. 

"Why  go  into  these  details?"  he  questioned 
harshly.  "I  warned  you  at  the  outset  what  to 
expect.  I  am  a  swindler  to  the  backbone.  The 
sooner  you  bundle  me  back  to  where  I  came  from, 
the  better.  I  sha  'n't  run  away  this  time  ' 

"I  shall  not  prosecute,"  Babbacombe  said. 

"You  will  not!"  West  blazed  into  sudden 
ferocity.  He  had  the  look  of  a  wild  animal  at  bay. 
"You  are  to  prosecute!"  he  exclaimed  violently. 
"Do  you  hear?  I  won't  have  any  more  of  your 
damned  charity!  I'll  go  down  into  my  own  limbo 
and  stay  there,  without  let  or  hindrance  from  you 
or  any  other  man.  If  you  are  fool  enough  to  offer 
me  another  chance,  as  you  call  it,  I  am  not  fool 
enough  to  take  it.  The  only  thing  I'll  take  from 
you  is  justice.  Understand?" 


7^  The  Swindler 

"You  wish  me  to  prosecute?  "  Babbacombe  said. 

"Idol" 

The  words  came  with  passionate  force.  West 
stood  in  almost  a  threatening  attitude.  His  eyes 
shone  in  the  gathering  dusk  like  the  eyes  of  a 
crouching  beast — a  beast  that  has  been  sorely 
wounded,  but  that  will  fight  to  the  last. 

The  man's  whole  demeanour  puzzled  Babba- 
combe— his  total  lack  of  shame  or  penitence,  his 
savagery  of  resentment.  There  was  something 
behind  it  all — something  he  could  not  fathom,  that 
baffled  him,  however  he  sought  to  approach  it. 
In  days  gone  by  he  had  wondered  if  the  fellow  had 
a  heart.  That  wonder  was  still  in  his  mind.  He 
himself  had  utterly  failed  to  reach  it  if  it  existed. 
And  Cynthia — even  Cynthia — had  failed.  Yet, 
somehow,  vaguely,  he  had  a  feeling  that  neither 
he  nor  Cynthia  had  understood. 

"I  don't  know  what  to  say  to  you,  West,"  he 
said  at  length. 

"Why  say  anything?"  said  West. 

"Because,"  Babbacombe  said  slowly,  "I  don't 
believe — I  can't  believe — that  simply  for  the  sake 
of  a  paltry  sum  like  that  you  would  have  risked  so 
much.  You  could  have  swindled  me  in  a  thousand 
ways  before  now,  and  done  it  easily,  too,  with 
small  chance  of  being  found  out.  But  this — this 
was  bound  to  be  discovered  sooner  or  later.  You 
must  have  known  that.  Then  why,  why  in 
heaven's  name  did  you  do  it?  Apart  from  every 
other  consideration,  it  was  so  infernally  foolish. 


The  Swindler's  Handicap          77 

It  wasn't  like  you  to  do  a  thing  like  that."  He 
paused,  then  suddenly  clapped  an  urgent  hand 
upon  the  swindler's  shoulder.  "West,"  he  said, 
"I'll  swear  that  you  never  played  this  game  with 
me  for  your  own  advantage.  Tell  the  truth,  man! 
Be  honest  with  me  in  heaven's  name!  Give  me 
the  chance  of  judging  you  fairly!  It  isn't  much  to 
ask." 

West  drew  back  sharply. 

"Why  should  I  be  honest  with  you?"  he  de- 
manded. "You  have  never  been  honest  with  me 
from  the  very  outset.  I  owe  you  nothing  in  that 
line,  at  all  events." 

He  spoke  passionately  still,  yet  not  wholly  with- 
out restraint.  He  was  as  a  man  fighting  desperate 
odds,  and  guarding  some  precious  possession  while 
he  fought.  But  these  words  of  his  were  something 
of  a  revelation  to  Babbacombe.  He  changed  his 
ground  to  pursue  it. 

"What  do  you  mean  by  that?" 

"You  know  very  well!"  West  flung  the  words 
from  between  set  teeth,  and  with  them  he  abruptly 
turned  his  back  upon  Babbacombe,  lodging  his 
arms  upon  the  mantelpiece.  "  I  am  not  going  into 
details  on  that  point  or  any  other.  But  the  fact  is 
there,  and  you  know  it.  You  have  never  been 
absolutely  straight  in  your  dealings  with  me.  I 
knew  you  weren't.  I  always  knew  it.  But  how 
crooked  you  were  I  did  not  know  till  lately.  If 
you  had  been  any  other  man,  I  believe  I  should 
have  given  you  a  broken  head  for  your  pains.  But 


78  The  Swindler 

you  are  so  damnably  courteous,  as  well  as  such 
an  unutterable  fool!"  He  broke  off  with  a  hard 
laugh  and  a  savage  kick  at  the  coals  in  front  of 
him.  "I  couldn't  see  myself  doing  it,"  he  said, 
"humbug  as  you  are." 

"And  so  you  took  this  method  of  making  me 
suffer?"  Babbacombe  suggested,  his  voice  very 
quiet  and  even. 

"You  may  say  so  if  it  satisfies  you, "  said  West, 
without  turning. 

"It  does  not  satisfy  me!"  There  was  a  note  of 
sternness  in  the  steady  rejoinder.  "It  satisfies 
me  so  little  that  I  insist  upon  an  expla- 
nation. Turn  round  and  tell  me  what  you 
mean." 

But  West  stood  motionless  and  silent,  as  though 
hewn  in  granite. 

Babbacombe  waited  with  that  in  his  face  which 
very  few  had  ever  seen  there.  At  last,  as  West 
remained  stubborn,  he  spoke  again: 

"I  suppose  you  have  found  out  my  original 
reason  for  giving  you  a  fresh  start  in  life,  and  you 
resent  my  having  kept  it  a  secret." 

"I  resent  the  reason."  West  tossed  the  words 
over  his  shoulder  as  though  he  uttered  them  against 
his  will. 

"Are  you  sure  even  now  that  you  know  what 
that  reason  was?"  Babbacombe  asked. 

"  I  am  sure  of  one  thing ! "  West  spoke  quickly, 
vehemently,  as  a  man  shaken  by  some  inner 
storm.  "Had  I  been  in  your  place — had  the 


The  Swindler's  Handicap          79 

woman  I  wanted  to  marry  asked  me  to  bring  back 
into  her  life  some  worthless  scamp  to  whom  she  had 
taken  a  sentimental  fancy  when  she  was  scarcely 
out  of  the  schoolroom,  I'd  have  seen  him  damned 
first,  and  myself  too — had  I  been  in  your  place.  I 
would  have  refused  pointblank,  even  if  it  had 
meant  the  end  of  everything." 

"I  believe  you  would, "  Babbacombe  said.  The 
sternness  had  gone  out  of  his  voice,  and  a  certain 
weariness  had  taken  its  place.  "But  you  haven't 
quite  hit  the  truth  of  the  matter.  Since  you  have 
guessed  so  much  you  had  better  know  the  whole. 
I  did  not  do  this  thing  by  request.  I  undertook  it 
voluntarily.  If  I  had  not  done  so,  some  other 
means — possibly  some  less  discreet  means — 
would  have  been  employed  to  gain  the  same 
end." 

"I  see!"  West's  head  was  bent.  He  seemed 
to  be  closely  examining  the  marble  on  which  his 
arms  rested.  "Well,"  he  said  abruptly,  "you've 
told  me  the  truth.  I  will  do  the  same  to  you. 
This  business  has  got  to  end.  I  have  done  my 
part  towards  bringing  that  about.  And  now  you 
must  do  yours.  You  will  have  to  prosecute, 
whether  you  like  it  or  not.  It  is  the  only  way." 

"What?"  Babbacombe  said  sharply. 

West  turned  at  last.  The  glare  had  gone  out  of 
his  eyes — they  were  cold  and  still  as  an  Arctic 
sky. 

"I  think  we  understand  one  another,"  he  said. 
"  I  see  you  don't  like  your  job.  But  you'll  stick  to 


8o  The  Swindler 

it,  for  all  that.  There  must  be  an  end — a  painless 
end  if  possible,  without  regrets.  She  has  got  to 
realise  that  I'm  a  swindler  to  the  marrow  of  my 
bones,  that  I  couldn't  turn  to  and  lead  a  decent, 
honourable  life — even  for  love  of  her." 

The  words  fell  grimly,  but  there  was  no  mockery 
in  the  steely  eyes,  no  feeling  of  any  sort.  They 
looked  full  at  Babbacombe  with  unfiickering 
steadiness,  that  was  all. 

Babbacombe  listened  in  the  silence  of  a  great 
amazement.  Vaguely  he  had  groped  after  the 
truth,  but  he  had  never  even  dimly  imagined  this. 
It  struck  him  dumb — this  sudden  glimpse  of  a 
man's  heart  which  till  that  moment  had  been  so 
strenuously  hidden  from  him. 

"My  dear  fellow,"  he  said  at  last;  "but  this  is 
insanity!" 

"Perhaps,"  West  returned,  unmoved.  "They 
say  every  man  has  his  mania.  This  is  mine,  and 
it  is  a  very  harmless  one.  It  won't  hurt  you  to 
humour  it." 

"But — good  heavens! — have  you  thought  of 
her?  "  Babbacombe  exclaimed. 

"I  am  thinking  of  her  only,"  West  answered 
quietly.  "And  I  am  asking  you  to  do  the  same, 
both  now  and  after  you  have  married  her." 

"And  send  you  to  perdition  to  secure  her  peace 
of  mind?  A  thousand  times — no!"  Babba- 
combe turned,  and  began  to  pace  the  room  as 
though  his  feelings  were  too  much  for  him.  But 
very  soon  he  stopped  in  front  of  West,  and  spoke 


The  Swindler's  Handicap          81 

with  grave  resolution.  "Look  here,"  he  said,  "I 
think  you  know  that  her  happiness  is  more  to  me 
than  anything  else  in  the  world,  except  my  honour. 
To  you  it  seems  to  be  even  more  than  that.  And 
now  listen,  for  as  man  to  man  I  tell  you  the  truth. 
You  hold  her  happiness  in  the  hollow  of  your 
hand!" 

West's  face  remained  as  a  mask;  his  eyes  never 
varied. 

"You  can  change  all  that,"  he  said. 

Babbacombe  shook  his  head. 

"I  am  not  even  sure  that  I  shall  try." 

"  What  then? "  said  West.  "Are  you  suggesting 
that  the  woman  you  love  should  marry  an  ex- 
convict — a  notorious  swindler,  a  blackguard?" 

"I  think, "  Babbacombe  answered  firmly,  "that 
she  ought  to  be  allowed  to  decide  that  point." 

"Allowed  to  ruin  herself  without  interference," 
substituted  West,  sneering  faintly.  "Well,  I 
don't  agree  with  you,  and  I  shall  never  give  her  the 
opportunity.  You  won't  move  me  from  that  if 
you  argue  till  Doomsday.  So,  in  heaven's  name, 
take  what  the  gods  offer,  and  leave  me  alone. 
Marry  her.  Give  her  all  a  good  woman  ever 
wants — a  happy  home,  a  husband  who  worships 
her,  and  children  for  her  to  worship,  and  you 
will  soon  find  that  I  have  dropped  below  the 
horizon." 

He  swung  round  again  to  the  fire,  and  drove  the 
poker  hard  into  the  coals. 

"And  find  another  agent  as  soon  as  possible, "  he 

6 


82  The  Swindler 

said;  "a  respectable  one  this  time,  one  who  won't 
let  you  down  when  you  are  not  looking,  who  won't 
call  you  a  fool  when  you  make  mistakes — in  short, 
a  gentleman.  There  are  plenty  of  them  about. 
But  they  are  not  to  be  found  in  the  world's  rubbish 
heap.  There's  nothing  but  filth  and  broken 
crockery  there." 

He  ended  with  his  brief,  cynical  laugh,  and 
Babbacombe  knew  that  further  discussion  would 
be  vain.  For  good  or  ill  the  swindler  had  made 
his  decision,  and  he  realised  that  no  effort  of  his 
would  alter  it.  To  attempt  to  do  so  would  be  to 
beat  against  a  stone  wall — a  struggle  in  which  he 
might  possibly  hurt  himself,  but  which  would 
make  no  difference  whatever  to  the  wall. 

Reluctantly  he  abandoned  the  argument,  and 
prepared  to  take  his  departure. 

But  later,  as  he  drove  home,  the  man's  words 
recurred  to  him  and  dwelt  long  in  his  memory. 
Their  bitterness  seemed  to  cloak  something  upon 
which  no  eye  had  ever  looked — a  regret  unspeak- 
able, a  passionate  repentance  that  found  no  place. 

IX 

"  I  have  just  discovered  of  whom  it  is  that  your 
very  unpleasant  agent  reminds  me,"  observed 
Lady  Cottesbrook  at  the  breakfast-table  on  the 
following  morning.  "It  flashed  upon  me  sud- 
denly. He  is  the  very  image  of  that  nasty  person, 
Nat  Verney,  who  swindled  such  a  crowd  of  people 
a  few  years  ago.  I  was  present  at  part  of  his  trial,. 


The  Swindler's  Handicap          83 

and  a  more  callous,  thoroughly  insolent  creature  I 
never  saw.  I  suppose  he  is  still  in  prison.  I  forget 
exactly  what  the  sentence  was,  but  I  know  it  was 
a  long  one.  I  should  think  this  man  must  be  his 
twin-brother,  Jack.  I  never  saw  a  more  remark- 
able likeness." 

Babbacombe  barely  glanced  up  from  his  letter. 
"You  are  always  finding  that  the  people  you 
don't  like  resemble  criminals,  Ursula,"  he  said, 
with  something  less  than  his  usual  courtesy.  "Did 
you  say  you  were  leaving  by  the  eleven-fifty?  I 
think  I  shall  come  with  you." 

"My  dear  Jack,  how  you  change!  I  thought 
you  were  going  to  stay  down  here  for  another 
week." 

"  I  was, "  he  answered.  "  But  I  have  had  a  line 
from  Cynthia  to  tell  me  that  her  hand  is  poisoned 
from  that  infernal  trap.  It  may  be  very  serious. 
It  probably  is,  or  she  would  not  have  written." 

That  note  of  Cynthia's  had  in  fact  roused  his 
deepest  anxiety.  He  had  fancied  all  along  that 
she  had  deliberately  made  light  of  the  injury. 
Soon  after  three  o'clock  he  was  in  town,  and  he 
hastened  forthwith  to  Cynthia's  flat  in  Mayfair. 

He  found  her  on  a  couch  in  her  dainty  boudoir, 
lying  alone  before  the  fire.  Her  eyes  shone  like 
stars  in  her  white  face  as  she  greeted  him. 

"It  was  just  dear  of  you  to  come  so  soon,"  she 
said.  "  I  kind  of  thought  you  would.  I'm  having 
a  really  bad  time  for  once,  and  I  thought  you'd 
like  to  know." 


84  The  Swindler 

44  Tell  me  about  it, "  he  said,  sitting  down  beside 
her. 

Her  left  hand  lay  in  his  for  a  few  moments,  but 
after  a  little  she  softly  drew  it  away.  Her  right 
was  in  a  sling. 

"There's  hardly  anything  to  tell,"  she  said. 
"  Only  my  arm  is  bad  right  up  to  the  shoulder,  and 
the  doctor  is  putting  things  on  the  wound  so  that  it 
sha'n't  leave  off  hurting  night  or  day.  I  dreamt  I 
was  Dante  last  night.  But  no,  I  won't  tell  you 
about  that.  It  was  too  horrible.  I've  never  been 
really  sick  before,  Jack.  It  frightens  me  some.  I 
sent  for  you  because  I  felt  I  wanted — a  friend  to 
talk  to.  It  was  outrageously  selfish  of  me." 

"  It  was  the  kindest  thing  you  could  do, "  Babba- 
combe  said. 

"Ah,  but  you  mustn't  misunderstand."  A  note 
of  wistfulness  sounded  in  the  high  voice.  "You 
won't  misunderstand,  will  you,  Jack?  I  only  want 
— a  friend." 

"You  needn't  be  afraid,  Cynthia, "  he  said.  " I 
shall  never  attempt  to  be  anything  else  to  you 
without  your  free  consent." 

"Thank  you,"  she  murmured.  "I  know  I'm 
very  mean.  But  I  had  such  a  bad  night.  I 
thought  that  all  the  devils  in  hell  were  jeering  at  me 
because  I  had  told  you  my  romance  was  dead.  Oh, 
Jack!  it  was  a  great  big  lie,  and  it's  come  home 
to  roost.  I  can't  get  rid  of  it.  It  won't  die." 

He  heard  the  quiver  of  tears  in  her  confession, 
and  set  his  teeth. 


The  Swindler's  Handicap  85 

"My  dear, "  he  said,  "don't  fret  about  that.  I 
knew  it  at  the  bottom  of  my  heart." 

She  reached  out  her  hand  to  him  again.  "I 
hate  myself  for  treating  you  like  this,"  she  whis- 
pered. "But  I — I'm  lonely,  and  I  can't  help  it. 
You — you  shouldn't  be  so  kind." 

"Ah,  child,  don't  grudge  me  your  friendship," 
he  said.  "It  is  the  dearest  thing  I  have." 

"It's  so  hard,"  wailed  Cynthia,  "that  I  can 
give  you  so  little,  when  I  would  so  gladly  give  all  if 
I  could." 

"You  are  not  to  blame  yourself  for  that,"  he 
answered  steadily.  "You  loved  each  other  before 
I  ever  met  you." 

"  Loved  each  other! "  she  said.  " Do  you  really 
mean  that,  Jack?" 

He  hesitated.  He  had  not  intended  to  say  so 
much. 

"Jack, "  she  urged  piteously,  "then  you  think  he 
really  cares?" 

"Don't  you  know  it,  Cynthia?"  he  asked,  in  a 
low  voice. 

' ' My  heart  knows  it, "  she  said  brokenly.  "But 
my  mind  isn't  sure.  Do  you  know,  Jack,  I  almost 
proposed  to  him  because  I  felt  so  sure  he  cared. 
And  he — he  just  looked  beyond  me,  as  if — as  if  he 
didn't  even  hear." 

"He  thinks  he  isn't  good  enough  for  you," 
Babbacombe  said,  with  an  effort.  "I  don't  think 
he  will  ever  be  persuaded  to  act  otherwise.  He 
seems  to  consider  himself  hopelessly  handicapped." 


86  The  Swindler 

"What  makes  you  say  that?"  whispered  Cyn- 
thia. 

He  had  not  meant  to  tell  her.  It  was  against 
his  will  that  he  did  so ;  but  he  felt  impelled  to  do  it. 
For  her  peace  of  mind  it  seemed  imperative  that 
she  should  understand. 

And  so,  in  a  few  words,  he  told  her  of  West's 
abortive  attempt  to  plunge  a  second  time  into  the 
black  depths  from  which  he  had  so  recently  es- 
caped, of  the  man's  absolutely  selfless  devotion, 
of  his  rigid  refusal  to  suffer  even  her  love  for  him 
to  move  him  from  this  attitude. 

Cynthia  listened  with  her  bright  eyes  fixed  un- 
swervingly upon  Babbacombe's  face.  She  made 
no  comment  of  any  sort  when  he  ended.  She  only 
pressed  his  hand. 

He  remained  with  her  for  some  time,  and  when 
he  got  up  to  go  at  length,  it  was  with  manifest 
reluctance.  He  lingered  beside  her  after  he  had 
spoken  his  farewell,  as  though  he  still  had  some- 
thing to  say. 

"You  will  come  again  soon,"  said  Cynthia. 

"To-morrow,"  he  answered.  "And — Cynthia, 
there  is  just  one  thing  I  want  to  say." 

She  looked  up  at  him  questioningly. 

"Only  this,"  he  said.  "You  sent  for  me  be- 
cause you  wanted  a  friend.  I  want  you  from  now 
onward  to  treat  me  and  to  think  of  me  in  that 
light  only.  As  I  now  see  things, .  I  do  not  think 
I  shc.ll  ever  be  anything  more  to  you  than  just 
that.  Remember  it,  won't  you,  and  make  use  of 


The  Swindler's  Handicap  87 

me  in  any  way  that  you  wish.  I  will  gladly  do 
anything." 

The  words  went  straight  from  his  heart  to  hers. 
Cynthia's  eyes  filled  with  sudden  tears.  She 
reached  out  and  clasped  his  hand  very  closely. 

"Dear  Jack,"  she  said  softly;  "you're  just  the 
best  friend  I  have  in  the  world,  and  I  sha'n't  forget 
it — ever." 

He  called  early  on  the  following  day,  and  re- 
ceived the  information  that  she  was  keeping  her 
bed  by  the  doctor's  orders.  Later  in  the  day  he 
went  again,  and  found  that  the  doctor  was  with 
her.  He  decided  to  wait,  and  paced  up  and  down 
the  drawing-room  for  nearly  an  hour.  Eventually 
the  doctor  came. 

Babbacombe  knew  him  slightly,  and  was  not 
surprised  when,  at  sight  of  him  in  the  doorway, 
the  doctor  turned  aside  at  once,  and  entered  the 
room. 

"Miss  Mortimer  told  me  I  should  probably  see 
you,"  he  said,  "and  if  I  did  so,  she  desired  me  to 
tell  you  everything.  I  am  sorry  to  say  that  I 
think  very  seriously  of  the  injury.  I  have  just 
been  persuading  her  to  go  into  a  private  nursing- 
home.  This  is  no  place  to  be  ill  in,  and  I  shall  have 
to  perform  a  slight  operation  to-morrow  which 
will  necessitate  the  use  of  an  anaesthetic." 

"An  operation!"  Babbacombe  exclaimed, 
aghast. 

"It  is  absolutely  imperative,"  the  doctor  said, 
"to  get  at  the  seat  of  the  poison.  I  am  making 


88  The  Swindler 

every  effort  to  prevent  the  mischief  spreading  any 
further.  Should  the  operation  fail,  no  power 
on  earth  will  save  her  hand.  It  may  mean  the 
arm  as  well." 

Babbacombe  listened  to  further  explanations, 
sick  at  heart. 

"When  do  you  propose  to  move  her?"  he  asked 
presently. 

"At  once.  I  am  going  now  to  make  arrange- 
ments." 

"  May  I  go  in  and  see  her  if  she  will  admit  me?  " 

"I  don't  advise  it  to-night.  She  is  excited  and 
overstrung.  To-morrow,  perhaps,  if  all  goes  well. 
Come  round  to  my  house  at  two  o'clock,  and  I  will 
let  you  know." 

But  Babbacombe  did  not  see  her  the  next  day, 
for  it  was  found  advisable  to  keep  her  absolutely 
quiet.  The  doctor  was  very  reticent,  but  he 
gathered  from  his  manner  that  he  entertained  very 
grave  doubts  as  to  the  success  of  his  treatment. 

On  the  day  following  he  telephoned  to  Babba- 
combe to  meet  him  at  the  home  in  the  afternoon. 

Babbacombe  arrived  before  the  time  appointed, 
and  spent  half  an  hour  in  sick  suspense,  awaiting 
the  doctor's  coming. 

The  latter  entered  at  last,  and  greeted  him  with 
a  serious  face. 

"I  am  going  to  let  you  see  Miss  Mortimer,"  he 
said.  "What  I  feared  from  the  outset  has  taken 
place.  The  mischief  was  neglected  too  long  at  the 
beginning.  There  is  nothing  for  it  but  amputation 


The  Swindler's  Handicap          89 

of  the  hand.  And  it  must  be  performed  without 
delay." 

Babbacombe  said  something  inarticulate  that  re- 
solved itself  with  an  effort  into: 

"Have  you  told  her?" 

"Yes,  I  have."  The  doctor's  voice  was  stern. 
''And  she  absolutely  refuses  to  consent  to  it.  I 
have  given  her  till  to-morrow  morning  to  make 
up  her  mind.  After  that — "  He  paused  a  mo- 
ment, and  looked  Babbacombe  straight  in  the  face. 
"After  that,"  he  said,  with  emphasis,  "it  will  be 
too  late." 

When  Babbacombe  entered  Cynthia's  presence 
a  few  minutes  later,  he  walked  as  a  man  dazed. 
He  found  her  lying  among  pillows,  with  the  sun- 
light streaming  over  her,  transforming  her  brown 
hair  into  a  mass  of  sparkling  gold.  The  old 
quick,  gracious  smile  welcomed  him  as  he  bent  over 
her.  There  were  deep  shadows  about  her  eyes,  but 
they  were  wonderfully  bright.  The  hand  she  gave 
him  was  as  cold  as  ice,  despite  the  flush  upon  her 
cheeks. 

"You  have  been  told?"  she  questioned.  "Yes, 
I  see  you  have.  Now,  don't  preach  to  me,  Jack — 
dear  Jack.  It's  too  shocking  to  talk  about.  Can 
you  believe  it?  I  can't.  I've  always  been  so 
clever  with  my  hands.  Have  you  a  pencil?  I 
want  you  to  take  down  a  wire  for  me." 

In  her  bright,  imperious  way,  she  dominated 
him.  It  was  well-nigh  impossible  to  realise  that 
she  was  dangerously  ill. 


90  The  Swindler 

He  sat  down  beside  her  with  pencil  and  paper. 

"Address  it  to  Mr.  West,"  said  Cynthia,  her 
eyes  following  his  fingers.  "Yes.  And  now  put 
just  this:  'I  am  sick,  and  wanting  you.  Will 
you  come? — Cynthia.'  And  write  the  address. 
Do  you  think  he'll  come,  Jack?" 

"  Let  me  add  '  Urgent, ' "  he  said. 

"No,  Jack.  You  are  not  to.  Add  nothing. 
If  he  doesn't  come  for  that,  he  will  never  come  at 
all.  And  I  sha'n't  wait  for  him,"  she  added  under 
her  breath. 

She  seemed  impatient  for  him  to  depart  and 
despatch  the  message,  but  when  he  took  his  leave 
her  eyes  followed  him  with  a  wistful  gratitude  that 
sent  a  thrill  to  his  heart.  She  had  taken  him  at  his 
word,  and  had  made  him  her  friend  in  need. 

X 

"If  he  doesn't  come  for  that,  he  will  never  come 
at  all." 

Over  and  over  Cynthia  whispered  the  words  to 
herself  as  she  lay,  with  her  wide,  shining  eyes  upon 
the  door,  waiting.  She  was  a  gambler  who  had 
staked  all  on  the  final  throw,  and  she  was  watching, 
weak  and  ill  as  she  was  after  long  suffering,  watch- 
ing restlessly,  persistently,  for  the  result  of  that 
last  great  venture.  Surely  he  would  come — surely 
— surely ! 

Once  she  spoke  imperiously  to  the  nurse. 

"If  a  gentleman  named  West  calls,  I  must  see 
him  at  once,  whatever  the  hour." 


The  Swindler's  Handicap          91 

The  nurse  raised  no  obstacle.  Perhaps  she 
realised  that  it  would  do  more  harm  than  good  to 
thwart  her  patient's  caprice. 

And  so  hour  after  hour  Cynthia  lay  waiting 
for  the  answer  to  her  message,  and  hour  followed 
hour  in  slow,  uneventful  procession,  bringing  her 
neither  comfort  nor  repose. 

At  length  the  doctor  came  and  offered  her  mor- 
phia, but  she  refused  it,  with  feverish  emphasis. 

"No,  no,  no!  I  don't  want  to  sleep.  I  am 
expecting  a  friend." 

"Won't  it  do  in  the  morning?"  he  said  per- 
suasively. 

Her  grey  eyes  flashed  eager  inquiry  up  at  him. 

"He  is  here?" 

The  doctor  nodded. 

"He  has  been  here  some  time,  but  I  hoped  you 
would  settle  down.  I  want  you  to  sleep." 

Sleep!  Cynthia  almost  laughed.  How  inex- 
plicably foolish  were  even  the  cleverest  of  men! 

"I  will  see  him  now,"  she  said.  "And,  please, 
alone, "  as  the  doctor  made  a  sign  to  the  nurse. 

He  moved  away  reluctantly,  and  again  she  al- 
most laughed  at  his  imbecility. 

But  a  minute  later  she  had  forgotten  everything 
in  the  world  save  that  upon  which  her  eyes  rested — 
a  short,  broad-shouldered  man,  clean-shaven,  with 
piercing  blue  eyes  that  looked  straight  at  her  with 
something — something  in  their  expression  that 
made  the  heart  within  her  leap  and  quiver  like  the 
strings  of  an  instrument  under  a  master  hand. 


92  The  Swindler 

He  came  quietly  to  the  bedside,  and  stood  look- 
ing down  upon  her,  not  uttering  a  word. 

She  stretched  up  her  trembling  hand. 

"I'm  very  glad  to  see  you,"  she  said  weakly. 
"You  got  my  message?  It — it — I  hope  it  didn't 
annoy  you." 

"It  didn't,"  said  West. 

His  voice  was  curt  and  strained.  His  fingers 
had  closed  very  tightly  upon  her  hand. 

"Sit  down,"  murmured  Cynthia.  "No,  don't 
let  go.  It  helps  me  some  to  have  you  hold  my 
hand.  Mr.  West,  I've  got  to  tell  you  something — 
something  that  will  make  you  really  angry.  I'm 
rather  frightened,  too.  It's  because  I'm  sick. 
You — you  must  just  make  allowances." 

A  light  kindled  in  West's  eyes  that  shone  like  a 
blue  flame,  but  still  he  held  himself  rigid,  inflexible 
as  a  figure  hewn  in  granite. 

"Pray  don't  distress  yourself,  Miss  Mortimer, " 
he  said  stiffly.  "Wouldn't  it  be  wiser  to  wait  till 
you  are  better  before  you  go  any  further?" 

"I  never  shall  be  better,"  Cynthia  rejoined,  a 
tremor  of  passion  in  her  voice,  "I  never  shall 
go  any  further,  unless  you  hear  me  out  to- 
night." 

West  frowned  a  little,  but  still  that  strange  light 
shone  in  his  steady  eyes. 

"I  am  quite  at  your  service,"  he  said,  "either 
now  or  at  any  future  time.  But  if  this  interview 
should  make  you  worse ' 

"Oh,  shucks!"  said  Cynthia,   with  a  ghostly 


The  Swindler's  Handicap  93 

little  smile.  "Don't  talk  through  your  hat,  Mr. 
West!" 

West  became  silent.  He  was  still  holding  her 
hand  in  a  warm,  close  grasp  that  never  varied. 

"Let's  get  to  business,"  said  Cynthia,  with  an 
effort  to  be  brisk.  "It  begins  with  a  confession. 
You  know  better  than  any  one  how  I  managed  to 
hurt  my  hand  so  badly.  But  even  you  don't  know 
everything.  Even  you  never  suspected  that — 
that  it  wasn't  an  accident  at  all;  that,  in  fact,  I  did 
it  on  purpose." 

She  broke  off  for  a  moment,  avoiding  his  eyes, 
but  clinging  tightly  to  his  hand. 

"I  did  it,"  she  went  on  breathlessly — "I  did  it 
because  I  heard  you  in  the  drive  below,  and  I 
wanted  to  attract  your  attention.  I  couldn't  see 
you,  but  I  knew  it  was  you.  I  was  just  going  to 
spring  the  trap  with  my  foot,  and  then — and  then 
I  heard  you,  and  I  stooped  down — it  came  to  me  to 
do  it,  and  I  never  stopped  to  think — I  stooped 
down  and  put  my  hand  in  the  way.  I  never 
thought — I  never  thought  it  would  hurt  so  fright- 
fully, or  that  it  could  come  to  this." 

She  was  crying  as  she  ended,  crying  piteously; 
while  West  sat  like  a  stone  image,  gazing  at  her. 

"Oh,  do  speak  to  me!"  she  sobbed.  "Do  say 
something!  Do  you  know  what  they  want  to  do? 
But  I  won't  let  them — I  won't  let  them!  It — it's 
too  dreadful  a  thing  to  happen  to  a  woman.  I 
can't  bear  it.  I  won't  bear  it.  It  will  be  much 
easier  to  die.  But  you  shall  know  the  truth  first." 


94  The  Swindler 

"Cynthia,  stop!"  It  was  West's  voice  at  last, 
but  not  as  she  had  ever  heard  it.  It  came  from 
him  hoarse  and  desperate,  as  though  wrung  by  the 
extreme  of  torture.  He  had  sunk  to  his  knees  by 
the  bed.  His  face  was  nearer  to  hers  than  it  had 
ever  been  before.  "Don't  cry!"  he  begged  her 
huskily.  "Don't  cry!  Why  do  you  tell  me  this 
if  it  hurts  you  to  tell  me?" 

"  Because  I  want  you  to  know ! "  gasped  Cynthia. 
"Wait!  Let  me  finish!  I  wanted — to  see — if — 
if  you  really  cared  for  me.  I  thought — if  you  did 
— you  wouldn't  be  able  to  go  on  pretending.  But 
— but — you  managed  to — somehow — after  all." 

She  ended,  battling  with  her  tears ;  and  West,  the 
strong,  the  cold,  the  cynical,  bowed  his  head  upon 
her  hand  and  groaned. 

"It  was  for — your  own  sake,"  he  muttered 
brokenly,  without  looking  up. 

"I  know,"  whispered  back  Cynthia.  "That 
was  just  what  made  it  so  impossible  to  bear. 
Because,  you  see,  I  cared,  too." 

He  was  silent,  breathing  heavily. 

Cynthia  watched  his  bent  head  wistfully,  but  she 
did  not  speak  again  till  she  had  mastered  her  own 
weakness. 

"Mr.  West,"  she  said  softly  at  length. 

He  stirred,  pressing  her  hand  more  tightly  to  his 
eyes. 

"I  am  going  to  tell  you  now,"  proceeded 
Cynthia,  "just  why  I  asked  you  to  come  to  me.  I 
suppose  you  know  all  about  this  trouble  of  mine — 


The  Swindler's  Handicap  95 

that  I  shall  either  die  very  soon,  or  else  have  to 
carry  my  arm  in  a  sling  for  the  rest  of  my  life. 
Now  that's  where  you  come  in.  Would  you — 
would  you  feel  very  badly  if  I  died,  I  wonder?" 

He  raised  his  head  at  that,  and  she  saw  his  face 
as  she  had  seen  it  once  long  ago — alert,  vital, 
full  of  the  passionate  intensity  of  his  love  for 
her. 

' '  You  sha'n't  die ! "  he  declared  fiercely.  ' '  Who 
says  you  are  going  to  die?" 

Cynthia's  eyes  fell  before  the  sudden  fire  that 
blazed  at  her  from  his.  "Unless  I  consent  to  be  a 
cripple  all  my  days,"  she  said,  with  a  curious 
timidity  wholly  unlike  her  usual  dainty  confidence. 

"  Of  course  you  will  consent, "  West  said,  sweep- 
ing down  her  half-offered  resistance  with  sheer, 
overmastering  strength.  "You'll  face  this  thing 
like  the  brave  woman  you  are.  Good  heavens! 
As  if  there  were  any  choice!" 

"There  is,"  Cynthia  whispered,  looking  at  him 
shyly,  through  lowered  lids.  "There  is  a  choice. 
But  it  rests  with  you.  Mr.  West,  if  you  want  me 
to  do  this  thing — if  you  really  want  me  to,  and  it's 
a  big  thing  to  do,  even  for  you — I'll  do  it.  There! 
I'll  do  it !  I'll  go  on  living  like  a  chopped  worm  for 
your  sake.  But — but — you'll  have  to  do  some- 
thing for  me  in  return.  Now  I  wonder  if  you 
can  guess  what  I'm  hinting  at?" 

West's  face  changed.  The  eagerness  went  out 
of  it.  Something  of  his  habitual  grimness  of  ex- 
pression returned. 


96  The  Swindler 

Yet  his  voice  was  full  of  tenderness  when  he 
spoke. 

"Cynthia,"  he  said  very  earnestly,  "there  is 
nothing  on  this  earth  that  I  will  not  do  for  you. 
But  don't  ask  me  to  be  the  means  of  ruining  you 
socially,  of  depriving  you  of  all  your  friends,  of 
degrading  you  to  a  position  that  would  break  your 
heart." 

A  glimmer  of  amusement  flashed  across  Cynthia's 
drawn  face. 

"Oh!"  she  said,  a  little  quiver  in  her  voice. 
"You  are  funny,  you  men,  dull  as  moles  and  blind 
as  bats.  My  dear,  there's  only  one  person  in  this 
little  universe  who  has  the  power  to  break  my 
heart,  and  it  isn't  any  fault  of  his  that  he  didn't 
do  it  long  ago.  No,  don't  speak.  There's  nothing 
left  for  you  to  say.  The  petition  is  dismissed,  but 
not  the  petitioner;  so  listen  to  me  instead.  I've 
a  sentimental  fancy  to  be  able  to  have  '  Mrs.  Nat 
V.  West'  written  on  my  tombstone  in  the  event 
of  my  demise  to-morrow.  I  want  you  to  make 
arrangements  for  the  same." 

"Cynthia!" 

The  word  was  almost  a  cry,  but  she  checked  it, 
her  fingers  on  his  lips. 

x  "You  great  big  silly!"  she  murmured,  laughing 
weakly.  "Where's  your  sense  of  humour?  Can't 
you  see  I'm  not  going  to  die?  But  I'm  going  to  be 
Mrs.  Nat  V.  West  all  the  same.  Now,  is  that 
quite  understood,  I  wonder?  Because  I  don't 
want  to  cry  any  more — I'm  tired." 


The  Swindler's  Handicap          97 

"You  wish  to  marry  me  in  the  morning — before 
the  operation?"  West  said,  speaking  almost  tinder 
his  breath. 

His  face  was  close  to  hers.  She  looked  him 
suddenly  straight  in  the  eyes. 

"Yes,  just  that, "  she  told  him  softly.  "I  want 
— dear — I  want  to  go  to  sleep,  holding  my  hus- 
band's hand." 

XI 

"  It's  a  clear  case  of  desertion, "  declared  Cynthia 
imperturbably,  two  months  later.  "But  never 
mind  that  now,  Jack.  How  do  you  like  my  sling? 
Isn't  it  just  the  cutest  thing  in  creation?" 

"You  look  splendid,"  Babbacombe  said  with 
warmth,  but  he  surveyed  her  with  slightly  raised 
brows  notwithstanding. 

She  nodded  brightly  in  response. 

"No,  I'm  not  worrying  any,  I  assure  you.  You 
don't  believe  me,  I  see.  So  here's  something  for 
you  to  read  that  will  set  your  mind  at  rest." 

Babbacombe  read,  with  a  slowly  clearing  face. 
The  note  he  held  was  in  his  agent's  handwriting. 

"  I  am  leaving  you  to-day,  for  I  feel,  now  you  are 
well  again,  that  you  will  find  it  easier  in  my  absence 
to  consider  very  carefully  your  position.  Your 
marriage  to  me  was  simply  an  act  of  impulse.  I 
gave  way  in  the  matter  because  you  were  in  no 
state  to  be  thwarted.  But  if,  after  consideration, 
you  find  that  that  act  was  a  mistake,  dictated  by 


98  The  Swindler 

weakness,  and  heaven  knows  what  besides  of 
generosity  and  pity,  something  may  yet  be  done  to 
remedy  it.  It  has  never  been  published,  and,  if 
you  are  content  to  lead  a  single  life,  no  one  who 
matters  need  ever  know  that  it  took  place.  I  am 
returning  to  my  work  at  Farringdean  for  the 
present.  I  am  aware  that  you  may  find  some 
difficulty  in  putting  your  feelings  in  this  matter 
into  words.  If  so,  I  shall  understand  your  silence. 
Yours, 

"N.  v.  WEST." 

"Isn't  he  quaint?"  said  Cynthia,  with  a  little 
gay  grimace.  "Now  do  you  know  what  I'm  going 
to  do,  Jack?  I'm  going  to  get  a  certain  good  friend 
of  mine  to  drive  me  all  the  way  to  Farringdean  in 
his  motor.  It's  Sunday,  you  know,  and  all  the 
fates  conspire  to  make  the  trains  impossible." 

"How  soon  do  you  wish  to  start?"  asked 
Babbacombe. 

"Right  away!"  laughed  Cynthia.  "And  if  we 
don't  get  run  in  for  exceeding  the  speed  limit,  we 
ought  to  be  there  by  seven." 

It  was  as  a  matter  of  fact  barely  half-past  six 
when  Babbacombe  turned  the  motor  in  at  the  great 
gates  of  Farringdean  Park.  A  sound  of  church- 
bells  came  through  the  evening  twilight.  The 
trees  of  the  avenue  were  still  bare,  but  there  was  a 
misty  suggestion  of  swelling  buds  in  the  saplings. 
The  wind  that  softly  rustled  through  them  seemed 
to  whisper  a  special  secret  to  each. 


The  Swindler's  Handicap          99 

"I  like  those  bells,"  murmured  Cynthia. 
"They  make  one  feel  almost  holy.  Jack,  you're 
not  fretting  over  me?" 

"No,  dear,"  said  Babbacombe  steadily. 

She  squeezed  his  arm. 

"I'm  so  glad,  for — honest  Injun — I'm  not 
worth  it.  Good-bye,  then,  dear  Jack!  Just  drive 
straight  away  directly  you've  put  me  down  I 
shall  find  my  own  way  in." 

He  took  her  at  her  word  as  he  always  did,  and, 
having  deposited  her  at  the  gate  under  the  trees 
that  led  to  his  bailiff's  abode,  he  shot  swiftly  away 
into  the  gathering  dusk  without  a  single  glance 
behind. 

West,  entering  his  home  a  full  hour  later,  heavy- 
footed,  the  inevitable  cigarette  between  his  lips, 
was  surprised  to  discover,  on  hanging  up  his  cap, 
a  morsel  of  white  pasteboard  stuck  jauntily  into 
the  glass  of  the  hatstand.  It  seemed  to  fling  him 
an  airy  challenge.  He  stooped  to  look.  A  lady's 
visiting-card!  Mrs.  Nat  V.  West! 

A  deep  flush  rose  suddenly  in  his  weather-beaten 
face.  He  seized  the  card,  and  crushed  it  against 
his  lips. 

But  a  few  moments  later,  when  he  opened  his 
dining-room  door,  there  was  no  hint  of  emotion  in 
his  bearing.  He  bore  himself  with  the  rigidity  of  a 
man  who  knows  he  has  a  battle  before  him. 

The  room  was  aglow  with  flickering  firelight, 
and  out  of  the  glow  a  high  voice  came — a  cheery, 
inconsequent  voice. 


ioo  The  Swindler 

"Oh,  here  you  are  at  last!  Come  right  in  and 
light  the  lamp.  Did  you  see  my  card?  Ah,  I 
knew  you  would  be  sure  to  look  at  yourself  directly 
you  came  in.  There's  nobody  at  home  but  me.  I 
suppose  your  old  woman's  gone  to  church.  I've 
been  waiting  for  you  such  a  while — twelve  years 
and  a  bit.  Just  think  of  it." 

She  was  standing  on  the  hearth  waiting  for  him, 
but  since  he  moved  but  slowly  she  stepped  for- 
ward to  meet  him,  her  hand  impetuously  out- 
stretched. 

He  took  it,  held  it  closely,  let  it  go. 

"We  must  talk  things  over,"  he  said. 

"Splendid!"  said  Cynthia.  "Where  shall  we 
begin?  Never  mind  the  lamp.  Let's  sit  by  the 
fire  and  be  cosy." 

He  moved  forward  with  her — it  was  impossible 
to  do  otherwise — but  there  was  no  yielding  in  his 
action.  He  held  himself  as  straight  and  stiff  as  a 
soldier  on  parade.  He  had  bitten  through  his 
cigarette,  and  he  tossed  it  into  the  fire. 

"Now  sit  down!"  said  Cynthia  hospitably. 
"That  chair  is  for  you,  and  I  am  going  to  curl  up 
on  the  floor  at  your  feet  as  becomes  a  dutiful 
wife." 

"Don't,  Cynthia!"  he  said  under  his  breath. 
But  she  had  her  way,  nevertheless.  There  were 
times  when  she  seemed  able  to  attain  this  with 
scarcely  an  effort. 

She  seated  herself  on  the  hearthrug  with  her  face 
to  the  fire. 


The  Swindler's  Handicap         101 

"Go  on, "  she  said,  in  a  tone  of  gentle  encourage- 
ment; "I'm  listening." 

West's  eyes  stared  beyond  her  into  the  flames. 

"I  haven't  much  to  say,"  he  said  quietly  at 
length.  "Only  this.  You  are  acting  without 
counting  the  cost.  There  is  a  price  to  pay  for 
everything,  but  the  price  you  will  have  to  pay  for 
this  is  heavier  than  you  realise.  There  should  be 
— there  can  be — no  such  thing  as  equality  between 
a  woman  in  your  position — a  good  woman — and  a 
blackguard  in  mine." 

Cynthia  made  a  little  gesture  of  impatience 
without  turning  her  head. 

"Oh,  you  needn't  treat  me  as  if  I  were  on  a 
different  plane,"  she  said.  "I'm  a  sinner,  too,  in 
my  own  humble  way.  It's  unreasonable  of  you  to 
go  on  like  that,  unkind  as  well.  I  may  be  only  a 
sprat  in  your  estimation,  but  even  a  sprat  has  its 
little  feelings,  its  little  heartaches,  too,  I  daresay." 
She  broke  off  with  a  sigh  and  a  laugh ;  then,  draw- 
ing impulsively  nearer  to  him,  but  still  without 
turning:  "Do  you  remember  once,  ages  and  ages 
ago,  you  were  on  the  verge  of  saying  something 
to  me,  of — telling  me  something?  And  we  were 
interrupted.  Mr.  West,  I've  been  waiting  all 
these  years  to  hear  what  that  something  was." 

West  did  not  stir  an  eyelid.  His  face  was  stern 
and  hard. 

"I  forget,"  he  said. 

She  turned  upon  him  then,  raising  a  finger  and 
pointing  straight  at  him. 


IO2  The  Swindler 

"That,"  she  said,  with  conviction,  "is  just  one 
of  your  lies!" 

West  became  silent,  still  staring  fixedly  into  the 
fire. 

Cynthia  drew  nearer  still.  She  touched  his 
breast  with  her  outstretched  finger. 

"Mr.  West,"  she  said  gravely,  "I  suppose  you'll 
have  to  leave  off  being  a  blackguard,  and  take  to 
being  an  honest  man.  That's  the  only  solution  of 
the  difficulty  that  I  can  think  of  now  that  you  have 
got  a  crippled  wife  to  look  after." 

He  gripped  her  wrist,  but  still  he  would  not  look 
at  her. 

"This  is  madness,"  he  said,  grinding  out  the 
words  through  clenched  teeth.  "You  are  making 
a  fatal  mistake.  I  am  not  fit  to  be  your  husband. 
It  is  not  in  my  power  to  give  you  happiness." 

She  did  not  shrink  from  his  hold,  though  it  was 
almost  violent.  Her  eyes  were  shining  like  stars. 

"That,"  she  said,  with  quaint  assurance,  "is 
just  another  of  your  lies." 

His  hand  relaxed  slowly  till  her  wrist  was 
free. 

"Do  you  know,"  he  said,  still  with  that  iron 
self-suppression,  "that  only  a  few  weeks  ago  I 
committed  forgery?  " 

"Yes,"  said  Cynthia.  "And  I  know  why  you 
did  it,  too.  It  wasn't  exactly  clever,  but  it  was 
just  dear  of  you  all  the  same." 

The  swindler's  face  quivered  suddenly,  uncon- 
trollably. He  tried  to  laugh — the  old  harsh  laugh 


The  Swindler's  Handicap         103 

— but  the  sound  he  uttered  was  akin  to  something 
very  different.  He  leaned  forward  sharply,  and 
covered  his  face  with  his  hands. 

And  in  that  moment  Cynthia  knew  that  the 
walls  of  the  citadel  had  fallen  at  last,  so  that  it  lay 
open  for  her  to  e  iter  in. 

She  knelt  up  quickly.  Her  arm  slipped  round 
his  neck.  She  drew  his  head  with  soft  insistence 
to  her  breast. 

"  My  own  boy,  it's  over ;  forget  it  all.  It  wasn  't 
meant  to  handicap  you  always.  We'll  have  an- 
other deal  now,  please  God,  and  start  afresh  as 
partners." 

There  followed  a  pause — a  silence  that  had  in  it 
something  sacred.  Then  West  raised  himself,  and 
took  her  face  between  his  hands.  For  a  moment 
he  looked  deep  into  her  eyes,  his  own  alight  with  a 
vital  fire. 

Then,  "As  lovers,  Cynthia,"  he  said,  and  kissed 
her  on  the  lips. 


The  Nonentity 


TT  is  well  known  that  those  fight  hardest  who 

A  fight  in  vain,"  remarked  Lord  Ronald  Prior 
complacently.  "But  I  should  have  thought  a 
woman  of  your  intellect  would  have  known  better. 
It's  such  a  rank  waste  of  energy  to  struggle  against 
Fate." 

He  spoke  in  the  easy  drawl  habitual  to  him. 
His  grey  eyes  held  the  pleasant  smile  that  was 
seldom  absent  from  them.  Not  in  any  fashion  a 
striking  personality,  this;  his  kindest  friend  could 
not  have  called  him  imposing,  nor  could  the  most 
uncharitable  have  described  him  as  anything 
worse  than  dull.  Enemies  he  had  none.  His  in- 
variable good  temper  was  his  safeguard  in  this  par- 
ticular. The  most  offensive  remark  would  not  have 
provoked  more  than  momentarily  raised  eyebrows. 

He  was  positively  characterless,  so  Beryl  Den- 
vers  told  herself  a  dozen  times  a  day.  How 
could  she  possibly  marry  any  one  so  neutral?  And 
yet  in  his  amiable,  exasperatingly  placid  fashion  he 
had  for  some  time  been  laying  siege  to  her  affec- 
tions. He  had  shaved  off  his  beard  because  he  had 

104 


The  Nonentity  105 

heard  her  say  that  she  objected  to  hairy  men,  and 
he  seemed  to  think  that  this  sacrifice  on  his  part 
entitled  him  to  a  larger  share  of  her  favour  than 
the  rest  of  the  world,  certainly  much  more  than  she 
was  disposed  to  bestow. 

He  had,  in  fact,  assumed  almost  an  air  of  pro- 
prietorship over  her  of  late — a  state  of  affairs 
which  she  strongly  resented,  but  was  powerless  to 
alter.  He  had  a  little  money,  but  no  prospects  to 
mention,  and  had  never  done  anything  worth  doing 
in  all  his  five-and-thirty  years.  And  yet  he  seemed 
to  think  himself  an  eligible  parti  for  one  of  the  most 
popular  women  in  the  district.  His  social  position 
gave  him  a  certain  precedence  among  her  other 
admirers,  but  Beryl  herself  refused  to  recognise 
this.  She  thought  him  presumptuous,  and  snubbed 
him  accordingly. 

But  Lord  Ronald's  courtship  seemed  to  thrive 
upon  snubs.  He  was  never  in  the  least  discon- 
certed thereby.  He  hadn't  the  brains  to  take 
offence,  she  told  herself  impatiently,  and  yet  some- 
where at  the  back  of  her  mind  there  lurked  a 
vagrant  suspicion  that  he  was  not  always  as  obtuse 
as  he  seemed. 

She  had  been  rude  to  him  on  the  present  occasion 
and  he  had  retaliated  with  his  smiling  speech  regard- 
ing her  intellect  which  had  made  her  feel  vaguely 
uncomfortable.  It  might  have  been — it  probably 
was — an  effort  at  bluff  on  his  part,  but,  uttered 
by  any  other  man,  it  would  have  had  almost  a 
hectoring  sound. 


io6  The  Swindler 

"  I  haven't  the  smallest  notion  what  you  mean," 
she  said,  after  a  decided  pause. 

"Charmed  to  explain,"  he  murmured. 

"Pray  don't  trouble!"  she  rejoined  severely. 
"It  doesn't  signify  in  the  least.  Explanations 
always  bore  me." 

Lord  Ronald  smiled  his  imperturbable  smile  and 
flicked  a  gnat  from  his  sleeve. 

"Especially  when  they  are  futile,  eh,  Mrs. 
Denvers?  I'm  not  fond  of  'em  myself.  Haven't 
much  ability  for  that  sort  of  thing." 

"Have  you  any  ability  for  anything,  I  wonder?" 
she  said. 

He  turned  his  smooth,  good-humoured  counte- 
nance towards  her.  It  wore  a  speculative  look,  as 
though  he  were  wondering  if  by  any  chance  she 
could  have  meant  to  be  nasty. 

"Oh,  rather!"  he  said.  "I  can  do  quite  a  lot 
of  things — and  decently,  too — from  boiling  pota- 
toes to  taming  snakes.  Never  heard  me  play  the 
cornet,  have  you?" 

Beryl  remarked  somewhat  unnecessarily  that 
she  detested  the  cornet.  She  seemed  to  be  thor- 
oughly exasperated  with  him  for  some  reason,  and 
evidently  wished  that  he  would  take  his  leave. 
But  this  fact  had  not  apparently  yet  penetrated  to 
Lord  Ronald's  understanding,  for  he  was  the  most 
obliging  of  men  at  all  times,  and  surely  would 
never  have  dreamed  of  intruding  his  presence 
where  it  was  unwelcome. 

He  sat  on  his  favourite  perch,  the  music-stool, 


The  Nonentity  107 

and  swung  himself  gently  to  and  fro  while  he  mildly 
upheld  the  virtues  of  the  instrument  she  had 
slighted. 

"I  was  asked  to  perform  at  a  smoker  the  other 
night  at  the  barracks,"  he  said.  "The  men 
seemed  to  enjoy  it  immensely." 

"Soldiers  like  anything  noisy,"  said  Beryl 
Denvers  scathingly. 

And  then — because  he  had  no  retort  ready — her 
heart  smote  her. 

"But  it  was  kind  of  you  to  go,"  she  said.  "I 
am  sure  you  wouldn't  enjoy  it." 

"Oh,  but  I  did,"  he  said,  "on  the  whole.  I 
should  have  liked  it  better  if  Fletcher  hadn't  been 
in  the  chair,  and  so,  I  think,  would  they.  But  it 
passed  off  very  fairly  well." 

"Why  do  you  object  to  Major  Fletcher?" 
Beryl's  tone  was  slightly  aggressive. 

Lord  Ronald  hesitated  a  little. 

"He  isn't  much  liked,"  he  told  her  vaguely. 

She  frowned. 

"But  that  is  no  answer.  Are  you  afraid  to 
answer  me?" 

He  laughed  at  that,  laughed  easily  and  naturally, 
in  the  tolerant  fashion  that  most  exasperated  her. 

"Oh,  no;  I'm  not  afraid.  But  I  don't  like 
hurting  people's  feelings — especially  yours." 

"  I  do  not  see  how  that  is  possible, "  she  rejoined, 
with  dignity,  "where  my  feelings  are  not  con- 
cerned." 

"Ah,  but  that's  where  it  is,"  he    responded. 


io8  The  Swindler 

"You  like  Fletcher  well  enough  to  be  extremely 
indignant  if  anyone  were  to  tell  you  that  he  is  not  a 
nice  person  for  you  to  know." 

"I  object  to  unpleasant  insinuations  regarding 
any  one, "  she  said,  with  slightly  heightened  colour. 
"They  always  appear  to  me  cowardly." 

"Yes;  but  you  asked,  you  know,"  Lord  Ronald 
reminded  her  gently. 

Her  colour  deepened.  It  was  not  often  that  he 
got  the  better  of  her;  not  often,  indeed,  that  he 
exerted  himself  to  do  so.  She  began  to  wish 
ardently  that  he  would  go.  Really,  he  was  quite 
insufferable  to-day. 

Had  he  been  a  man  of  any  perception  whatever 
she  would  almost  have  thought  that  he  fathomed 
her  desire,  for  at  this  point  he  rose  in  a  leisurely 
fashion  as  though  upon  the  point  of  departure. 

She  rose  also  from  behind  the  tea-table  with  a 
little  inward  pricking  of  conscience  for  wishing  him 
gone.  She  wondered  if  he  deemed  her  inhospit- 
able, but  if  he  did  he  disguised  it  very  carefully, 
for  his  eyes  held  nothing  but  friendliness  as  they 
met  her  own. 

"Has  it  never  occurred  to  you,"  he  said,  "that 
you  lead  a  very  unprotected  existence  here?" 

Something  in  his  expression  checked  her  first 
impulse  to  resent  the  question;  Her  lip  quivered 
unexpectedly. 

"Now  and  then,"  she  said. 

"Are  you  a  man-hater?"  he  asked  deliberately. 

She  laughed  a  little. 


The  Nonentity  109 

"Why  do  you  ask  such  an  absurd  question?" 

He  seemed  to  hesitate  momentarily. 

"Because — forgive  me — wouldn't  you  be  a  good 
deal  happier  if  you  were  to  marry  again?" 

Again  her  colour  rose  hotly.  What  did  the  man 
mean  by  assuming  this  attitude?  Was  he  about  to 
plead  his  own  cause,  or  that  of  another? 

"I  think  it  exceedingly  doubtful,"  she  replied 
stiffly,  meeting  his  steady  eyes  with  a  hint  of 
defiance. 

"You  have  never  thought  of  such  a  thing  per- 
haps?" he  suggested. 

She  smiled  a  woman's  pitying  smile. 

"Of  course  I  have  thought  of  it." 

"Then  you  have  not  yet  met  the  man  to 
whom  you  would  care  to  entrust  yourself?"  he 
asked. 

She  took  fire  at  this.  It  was  an  act  of  presump- 
tion not  to  be  borne. 

"Even  if  I  had,"  she  said,  with  burning  cheeks, 
"  I  do  not  think  I  should  make  Lord  Ronald  Prior 
my  confidant." 

"No?"  he  said.     "Yet  you  might  do  worse." 

Her  eyes  shot  scorn. 

"Can  a  man  be  worse  than  inept?"  she  asked. 

"Yes,"  he  answered.  "Since  you  ask  me,  I 
think  he  can — a  good  deal  worse." 

"I  detest  colourless  people!"  she  broke  in 
vehemently. 

He  smiled. 

"In  fact,  you  prefer  black  sheep  to  grey  sheep. 


no  The  Swindler 

A  good  many  women  do.  But  it  doesn't  follow 
that  the  preference  is  a  wise  one." 

The  colour  faded  suddenly  from  her  face.  Did 
he  know  how  ghastly  a  failure  her  first  marriage 
had  been?  Most  people  knew.  Could  it  be  to 
this  that  he  was  referring?  The  bare  suspicion 
made  her  wince. 

"That, "  she  said  icily,  " is  no  one's  affair  but  my 
own.  I  am  not  wholly  ignorant  of  the  ways  of  the 
world.  And  I  know  whom  I  can  trust." 

"You  trust  me,  for  instance?  "  said  Lord  Ronald. 

She  looked  him  up  and  down  witheringly. 

"I  should  say  you  are  quite  the  most  harmless 
man  I  know." 

"And  you  don't  like  me  in  consequence,"  he 
drawled,  meeting  the  look  with  eyes  so  intent  that, 
half-startled,  she  lowered  her  own. 

She  turned  away  from  him  with  an  impatient 
gesture.  He  had  never  managed  to  embarrass  her 
before. 

"I  should  like  you  better  if  you  weren't  so 
officious, "  she  said. 

"But  you  have  no  one  else  to  look  after  you," 
objected  Lord  Ronald. 

"Well,  in  any  case,  it  isn't  your  business,"  she 
threw  back,  almost  inclined  to  laugh  at  his  auda- 
city. 

"  It  would  be  if  you  married  me, "  he  pointed  out, 
as  patiently  as  if  he  were  dealing  with  a  fractious 
child. 

"If  I " 


The  Nonentity  in 

She  wheeled  abruptly,  amazed  out  of  her  disdain. 
It  was  the  most  prosaic  proposal  she  had  ever  had. 

"If  you  married  me,"  he  repeated,  keeping  his 
eyes  upon  her.  "You  admit  that  I  am  harmless, 
so  you  would  have  nothing  to  fear  from  me.  And 
as  a  watch-dog,  I  think  you  would  find  me  useful — 
and  quite  easy  to  manage,"  he  added,  with  his 
serene  smile. 

Beryl  was  staring  at  him  in  wide  astonishment. 
Was  the  man  mad  to  approach  her  thus? 

"No,"  he  said.  "I  am  quite  sane;  eccentric 
perhaps,  but — as  you  are  kind  enough  to  observe 
— quite  harmless.  I  never  proposed  to  any  woman 
before  in  my  life,  or  so  much  as  wanted  to,  so  that 
must  be  my  excuse  for  doing  it  badly.  Really, 
you  know,  Mrs.  Denvers,  you  might  do  worse  than 
marry  me.  You  might  indeed." 

But  at  that  her  indignation  broke  bounds.  If  he 
were  not  mad,  it  made  him  the  more  intolerable. 
Did  he  fancy  himself  so  desirable,  then,  that  he  had 
merely  to  fling  her  the  handkerchief — to  find  her 
at  his  feet?  His  impertinence  transcended  belief. 
But  she  would  pay  him  back  in  his  own  coin.  He 
should  never  again  imagine  himself  irresistible. 

"Really,  Lord  Ronald,"  she  said,  "if  I  actually 
needed  a  protector — which  I  do  not — you  are  the 
very  last  person  to  whom  I  should  turn.  And  as 
to  a  husband " 

She  paused  a  moment,  searching  for  words 
sufficiently  barbed  to  penetrate  even  his  compla- 
cenjy. 


ii2  The  Swindler 

"Yes?"  he  said  gently,  as  if  desirous  to  help  her 
out. 

"As  to  a  husband,"  she  said,  "if  I  ever  marry 
again,  it  will  be  a  man  I  can  respect — a  man  who 
can  hold  his  own  in  the  world ;  a  man  who  is  really 
a  man,  and  not — not  a  nonentity!" 

Impetuously  she  flung  the  words.  For  all  his 
placidity,  he  seemed  to  possess  the  power  to  infuri- 
ate her.  She  longed  intensely  to  move  him  to 
anger.  She  felt  insulted  by  his  composure,  hating 
him  because  he  remained  so  courteously  attentive. 

He  made  no  attempt  to  parry  her  thrust,  nor  did 
he  seem  to  be  disconcerted  thereby.  He  merely 
listened  imperturbably  till  she  ceased  to  speak. 
Then: 

"Ah,  well,"  he  said  good-humouredly,  "you 
mustn't  take  me  too  seriously.  It  was  only  a 
suggestion,  you  know."  He  picked  up  his  hat 
with  the  words.  "A  pity  you  can't  see  your  way 
to  fall  in  with  it,  but  you  know  best.  Good-bye 
for  the  present." 

Reluctantly,  in  response  to  his  evident  expecta- 
tion, she  gave  him  her  hand. 

"I  wish  you  to  understand,  Lord  Ronald,"  she 
said  stiffly  as  she  did  so,  "that  my  reply  is  final." 

He  lifted  his  eyebrows  for  a  second,  and  she 
fancied — could  it  have  been  mere  fancy? — that  the 
grey  eyes  shone  with  a  certain  steely  determination 
that  was  assuredly  foreign  to  his  whole  nature  as  he 
made  deliberate  reply: 

"That  is  quite  understood,  Mrs.  Denvers.     It 


The  Nonentity  113 

was  awfully  kind  of  you  to  be  so  explicit.    As  you 
know,  I  am  not  good  at  taking  hints." 

And  with  that  he  was  gone,  unruffled  to  the  last, 
perfectly  courteous,  almost  dignified,  while  she 
stood  and  watched  his  exit  with  a  vague  and  dis- 
quieting suspicion  that  he  had  somehow  managed 
to  get  the  best  of  it  after  all. 

II 

When  Beryl  Denvers  first  came  to  Kundaghat  to 
be  near  her  friend  Mrs.  Ellis,  the  Commissioner's 
wife,  society  in  general  openly  opined  that  she  had 
come  to  the  populous  Hill  station  to  seek  a  hus- 
band. She  was  young,  she  was  handsome,  and  she 
was  free.  It  seemed  the  only  reasonable  conclu- 
sion to  draw.  But  since  that  date  society  had  had 
ample  occasion  to  change  its  mind.  Beryl  Denvers 
plainly  valued  her  freedom  above  every  other 
consideration,  and  those  who  wooed  her  wooed  in 
vain.  She  discouraged  the  attentions  of  all 
mankind  with  a  rigour  that  never  varied,  till 
society  began  to  think  that  her  brief  matrimonial 
experience  had  turned  her  into  a  man-hater.  And 
yet  this  was  hard  to  believe,  for,  though  quick- 
tempered, she  was  not  bitter.  She  was  quite 
willing  to  be  friendly  with  all  men,  up  to  a  certain 
point.  But  beyond  this  subtle  boundary  few 
dared  to  venture  and  none  remained.  There 
was  a  wonderful  fascination  about  her,  a  magnet- 
ism that  few  could  resist ;  but  notwithstanding  this 
t 


ii4  The  Swindler 

she  held  herself  aloof,  never  wholly  forgetting  her 
caution  even  with  those  who  considered  themselves 
her  intimates. 

Having  dismissed  Lord  Ronald  Prior,  with 
whom  she  was  almost  unreasonably  angry,  she 
ordered  her  rickshaw  and  went  out  to  cool  her  hot 
cheeks.  The  recent  interview  had  disquieted  her 
to  the  depths.  She  tried  to  regard  his  presump- 
tion as  ludicrous,  yet  failed  to  do  so.  For  what  he 
had  said  was  to  a  large  extent  true.  She  was 
unprotected,  and  she  was  also  lonely,  though  this 
she  never  owned.  She  stifled  a  sigh  as  she  set 
forth.  Hitherto  she  had  always  liked  Lord  Ronald. 
Why  had  he  couched  his  proposal  in  such  im- 
possible terms? 

She  went  to  the  polo-ground  to  watch  the 
practice,  and  here  found  several  friends  in  whose 
society  she  tried  to  forget  her  discomfiture.  But 
it  remained  with  her  notwithstanding,  and  was 
still  present  when  she  returned  to  prepare  for 
dinner.  She  was  dining  with  the  Ellises  that 
night,  and  she  hoped  ardently  that  Lord  Ronald 
would  not  make  one  of  the  party. 

But  she  was  evidently  destined  for  mortification 
that  day,  for  the  first  thing  she  saw  upon  entering 
the  drawing-room  was  his  trim  figure  standing  by 
her  hostess.  And,  "  Lord  Ronald  will  take  you  in, 
dear, "  said  Nina  Ellis,  as  she  greeted  her. 

Beryl  glanced  at  him,  and  he  bowed  in  his 
courtly  way.  "I  hope  you  don't  mind,"  he 
murmured. 


The  Nonentity  115 

She  did  mind  exceedingly,  but  it  was  impossible 
to  say  so.  She  could  only  yield  to  the  inevitable 
and  rest  the  tips  of  her  fingers  upon  his  sleeve. 

It  was  with  a  decided  sense  of  relief  that  she 
found  Major  Fletcher  seated  on  her  other  side. 
A  handsome,  well-mannered  cavalier  was  Major 
Fletcher,  by  every  line  of  his  figure  a  soldier,  by 
every  word  of  his  conversation  a  gentleman. 
Exceedingly  self-possessed  at  all  times,  it  was  sel- 
dom, if  ever,  that  he  laid  himself  open  to  a  snub. 
It  was  probably  for  this  very  reason  that  Beryl 
liked  him  better  than  most  of  the  men  in  Kunda- 
ghat,  was  less  distant  with  him,  and  usually  granted 
the  very  little  that  he  asked  of  her. 

She  turned  to  him  at  once  with  a  random  remark 
about  the  polo-players,  wondering  if  they  would 
be  able  to  hold  their  own  against  a  native  team 
with  whom  a  match  had  been  arranged  for  the 
following  week. 

" Oh,  I  think  so, "  he  said.  "The  Farabad  men 
are  strong,  but  our  fellows  are  hard  to  beat.  It 
won't  be  a  walkover  for  either  side." 

"Where  will  the  match  be  played?"  she  asked, 
nervously  afraid  of  letting  the  subject  drop  lest 
Lord  Ronald  should  claim  her  attention. 

"Here,"  said  Major  Fletcher.  "It  was  origi- 
nally to  have  been  at  Farabad,  but  there  was  some 
difficulty  about  the  ground.  I  was  over  there  ar- 
ranging matters  only  this  evening.  The  whole 
place  is  being  turned  upside  down  for  a  native  fair 
which  is  to  be  held  in  a  few  days,  when  the  moon 


n6  The  Swindler 

is  full.  You  ought  to  see  it.  It  is  an  interest- 
ing sight — one  which  I  believe  you  would 
enjoy." 

"No  doubt  I  should,"  she  agreed.  "But  it  is 
rather  a  long  way,  isn't  it?" 

' '  Not  more  than  twelve  miles. ' '  Fletcher's  dark 
face  kindled  with  a  sudden  idea.  "I  could  drive 
you  down  some  morning  early  if  you  cared  for 
it." 

Beryl  hesitated.  It  was  not  her  custom  to  ac- 
cept invitations  of  this  sort,  but  for  once  she  felt 
tempted.  She  longed  to  demonstrate  her  inde- 
pendence to  Lord  Ronald,  whose  suggestions  re- 
garding her  inability  to  take  care  of  herself  had 
so  sorely  hurt  her  pride.  Might  she  not  permit 
herself  this  one  small  fling  for  his  benefit?  It 
would  be  so  good  for  him  to  realise  that  she  was  no 
incompetent  girl,  but  a  woman  of  the  world  and 
thoroughly  well  versed  in  its  ways.  And  at  least 
he  would  be  forced  to  recognise  that  his  proposal 
had  been  little  short  of  an  absurdity.  She  wanted 
him  tr  see  that,  as  she  wanted  nothing  else  on 
earth. 

"You  think  it  would  bore  you?"  asked  Fletcher. 

"No,"  she  said,  flushing  slightly;  "I  think  I 
should  like  it." 

"Well  done!"  he  said,  with  quiet  approval. 
"You  are  such  a  hermit,  Mrs.  Denvers,  that  it  will 
be  quite  a  novelty  for  us  both." 

She  met  his  eyes  for  an  instant,  assailed  by  a 
sudden  memory  of  Lord  Ronald's  vague  remarks 


The  Nonentity  117 

concerning  him.  But  they  were  very  level,  and 
revealed  nothing  whatever.  She  told  herself  indig- 
nantly that  there  was  nothing  to  reveal.  The  man 
had  simply  made  her  a  friendly  offer,  and  she 
determined  to  accept  it  in  a  like  spirit. 

"It  was  kind  of  you  to  think  of  it,"  she  said. 
"I  will  come  with  much  pleasure." 

On  her  other  side  she  heard  Lord  Ronald's 
leisurely  tones  conversing  with  his  neighbour,  and 
wondered  if  aught  of  the  project  had  reached 
him.  She  hoped  it  had,  though  the  serenity  of  his 
demeanour  made  her  doubtful.  But  in  any  case 
he  would  surely  know  sooner  or  later. 


Ill 


Major  Fletcher  was  well  versed  in  the  ways  of 
natives,  and  as  they  drove  in  his  high  dog-cart  to 
Farabad  a  few  days  later,  he  imparted  to  his  com- 
panion a  good  deal  of  information  regarding  them 
of  which,  till  then,  she  had  been  quite  ignorant. 

He  succeeded  in  arousing  her  interest,  and  the 
long  drive  down  the  hillside  in  the  early  morning 
gave  her  the  keenest  enjoyment.  She  had  been 
feeling  weary  and  depressed  of  late,  a  state  of 
affairs  which  could  not  fairly  be  put  down  to  the 
score  of  ill-health.  She  had  tried  hard  to  ignore  it, 
but  it  had  obtruded  itself  upon  her  notwithstand- 
ing, and  she  was  glad  of  the  diversion  which  this 
glimpse  of  native  life  afforded  her.  Of  Lord 
Ronald  Prior  she  had  seen  nothing  for  over  a  week. 


n8  The  Swindler 

He  had  left  Kundaghat  on  the  day  following  the 
dinner-party,  dropping  unobtrusively,  without 
farewell,  out  of  her  life.  She  had  told  herself  a 
dozen  times,  and  vehemently,  that  she  was  glad  of 
it,  but  the  humiliating  fact  remained  that  she 
missed  him — missed  him  at  every  turn;  when  she 
rode,  when  she  danced,  when  she  went  out  in  her 
rickshaw,  and  most  of  all  in  her  drawing-room. 

She  had  grown  so  accustomed  to  the  sight  of  the 
thick-set,  unromantic  figure  swinging  lazily  to  and 
fro  on  her  sorely  tried  music-stool,  watching  her 
with  serene  grey  eyes  that  generally  held  a  smile. 
She  wished  she  had  not  been  quite  so  severe.  She 
had  not  meant  to  send  him  quite  away.  As  a 
friend,  his  attitude  of  kindly  admiration  was  all 
that  could  be  desired.  And  he  was  so  safe,  too,  so 
satisfactorily  solid.  She  had  always  felt  that  she 
could  say  what  she  liked  to  him  without  being 
misunderstood.  Well,  he  had  gone,  and  as  they 
finally  alighted,  and  went  forward  on  foot  through 
the  fair,  she  resolutely  dismissed  him  from  her  mind. 

She  made  one  or  two  purchases  under  Fletcher's 
guidance,  which  meant  that  she  told  him  what  she 
wanted  and  stood  by  while  he  bargained  for  her  in 
Hindustani,  an  amusing  business  from  her  point  of 
view. 

Undoubtedly  she  was  beginning  to  enjoy  herself, 
when  he  surprised  her  by  turning  from  one  of 
these  unintelligible  colloquies,  and  offering  for  her 
acceptance  a  beautifully  wrought  gold  filigree 
bracelet. 


The  Nonentity  119 

She  looked  at  him  blankly,  not  without  a  vague 
feeling  of  dismay. 

"Won't  you  have  it?"  he  said.  "Won't  you 
permit  me  this  small  favour?" 

She  felt  the  colour  go  out  of  her  face.  It  was  so 
unexpected,  this  from  him — in  a  fashion,  almost 
staggering.  For  some  reason  she  had  never  re- 
garded this  man  as  a  possible  admirer.  She  felt 
as  if  the  solid  ground  had  suddenly  quaked  be- 
neath her. 

"I  would  rather  not,"  she  said  at  last,  avoiding 
his  eyes  instinctively.  "Please  don't  think  me 
ungracious.  I  know  you  mean  to  be  kind." 

"If  you  really  believe  that,"  said  Fletcher, 
smiling  faintly,  "I  don't  see  your  objection." 

The  blood  rushed  back  in  a  burning  wave  to  her 
face.  She,  who  prided  herself  upon  being  a  woman 
of  the  world,  blushed  hotly,  overwhelmingly,  like 
any  self-conscious  girl. 

"I  would  rather  not,"  she  repeated,  with  her 
eyes  upon  the  ground. 

But  Fletcher  was  not  to  be  turned  lightly  from 
his  purpose. 

"I  wouldn't  distress  you  for  the  world,  Mrs. 
Denvers, "  he  said,  "but  don't  you  think  you 
are  a  trifle  unreasonable?  No  one  expects  a  wo- 
man in  your  position  to  be  a  slave  to  convention. 
I  would  never  have  bought  the  thing  had  I  dreamed 
that  it  could  be  an  offence." 

There  was  a  tinge  of  reproach  in  his  voice,  no 
more,  but  she  felt  inexplicably  ashamed  as  she 


i2o  The  Swindler 

heard  it.  She  looked  up  sharply,  and  the  convic- 
tion that  she  was  making  herself  ridiculous  swept 
quickly  upon  her.  She  held  out  her  hand  to  him, 
and  mutely  suffered  him  to  slip  the  bangle  on  to 
her  wrist. 


IV 


A  curious  rattling  sound  made  them  turn  sharply 
the  next  moment,  and  even  though  it  proved  to  be 
the  warning  signal  of  an  old  snake-charmer,  Beryl 
welcomed  the  diversion.  She  looked  at  the  man 
with  a  good  deal  of  interest,  notwithstanding  her 
repulsion.  He  was  wrapped  in  a  long,  very  dirty, 
white  chuddah,  from  which  his  face  peered  weirdly 
forth,  wrinkled  and  old,  almost  supernaturally  old, 
she  thought  to  herself.  It  was  very  strangely 
adorned  with  red  paint,  which  imparted  to  the  eyes 
a  ghastly  pale  appearance  in  the  midst  of  the 
swarthy  skin.  A  wiry  grey  beard  covered  the  lower 
part  of  the  face,  and  into  this  he  was  crooning  a 
tuneless  and  wholly  unintelligible  song,  while  he 
squatted  on  the  ground  in  front  of  a  large,  covered 
basket. 

"He  has  got  a  cobra  there,"  Fletcher  said,  and 
took  Beryl's  arm  quietly. 

She  moved  slightly,  with  a  latent  wish  that  he 
would  take  his  hand  away.  But  natives  were  be- 
ginning to  crowd  and  press  about  them  to  see  the 
show,  and  she  realised  that  his  action  was  dictated 
by  necessity. 


The  Nonentity  121 

"Shall  I  take  you  away  before  we  get  hemmed 
in?"  he  asked  her  once. 

But  she  shook  her  head.  A  nameless  fascination 
impelled  her  to  remain. 

Even  when  the  snake-charmer  shot  forth  a  dusky 
arm  and  clawed  the  basket  open,  she  showed  no 
sign  of  fear,  though  Fletcher's  hold  upon  her 
tightened  to  a  grip.  They  seemed  to  be  the  only 
Europeans  in  all  that  throng,  but  that  fact  also  she 
had  forgotten.  She  could  think  of  nothing  but  the 
crouching  native  before  her,  and  the  basket  in 
which  some  living,  moving  thing  lay  enshrouded. 

Closely  she  watched  the  active  fingers,  alert  and 
sensitive,  feeling  over  the  dingy  cloth  they  had 
exposed.  Suddenly,  with  a  movement  too  swift  to 
be  followed,  they  rent  the  covering  away,  and  on 
the  instant,  rearing  upwards,  she  beheld  a  huge 
snake. 

A  thrill  of  horror  shot  through  her,  so  keen  that 
it  stabbed  every  pulse,  making  her  whole  body 
tingle.  But  there  was  no  escape  for  her  then,  nor 
did  she  seek  it.  She  had  a  most  unaccountable 
feeling  that  this  display  was  for  her  alone,  that  in 
some  way  it  appealed  to  her  individually ;  and  she 
was  no  longer  so  much  as  conscious  of  Fletcher's 
presence  at  her  side. 

The  charmer  continued  his  crooning  noise,  and 
the  great  cobra  swayed  its  inflated  neck  to  and  fro 
as  though  to  some  mysterious  rhythm,  the  native 
with  naked  hand  and  arm  seeming  to  direct  it. 

"Loathsome!"  murmured  a  voice  into  Beryl's 


122  The  Swindler 

ear,  but  she  did  not  hear  it.  Her  whole  intelligence 
was  riveted  upon  the  movements  of  the  serpent  and 
its  master.  It  was  a  hideous  spectacle,  but  it 
occupied  her  undivided  attention.  She  had  no 
room  for  panic. 

Suddenly  the  man's  crooning  ceased,  and  on  the 
instant  the  cobra  ceased  to  sway.  It  seemed  to 
gather  itself  together,  was  rigid  for  perhaps  five 
seconds,  and  then — swift  as  a  lightning  flash — it 
struck. 

A  sharp  cry  broke  from  Beryl,  but  she  never 
knew  that  she  uttered  it.  All  she  was  aware  of  was 
the  ghastly  struggle  that  ensued  in  front  of  her,  the 
fierce  writhing  of  the  snake,  the  convulsive  move- 
ments of  the  old  native,  and,  curiously  distinct 
from  everything  else,  an  impression  of  some 
stringed  instrument  thrumming  somewhere  at  the 
back  of  the  crowd. 

It  all  ended  as  unexpectedly  as  it  had  begun. 
The  great  reptile  became  suddenly  inert,  a  lifeless 
thing;  the  monotonous  crooning  was  resumed, 
proceeding  as  it  were  out  of  the  chaos  of  the 
struggle,  and  round  his  neck  and  about  his  body 
the  snake-charmer  wound  his  vanquished  foe. 

The  moment  for  backsheesh  had  arrived,  and 
Beryl,  coming  suddenly  out  of  her  absorption,  felt 
for  her  purse  and  awoke  abruptly  to  the  conscious- 
ness of  a  hand  that  gripped  her  arm. 

She  glanced  at  Fletcher,  who  at  once  slackened 
his  hold.  "Don't  you  give  the  fellow  anything," 
he  said,  with  a  touch  of  peremptoriness,  "I  will." 


The  Nonentity  123 

She  yielded,  considering  the  matter  too  trivial 
for  argument,  and  watched  his  rupee  fall  with  a 
tinkle  upon  the  tin  plate  which  the  snake-charmer 
extended  at  the  length  of  his  sinewy  arm. 

Fletcher  speedily  made  a  way  for  her  through  the 
now  shifting  crowd;  and  after  a  little  they  found 
the  saice,  waiting  with  the  mare  under  a  tree.  The 
animal  was  tormented  by  flies  and  restless.  Cer- 
tainly in  this  valley  district  it  was  very  hot. 

"We  will  go  back  by  the  hill  road,"  Fletcher 
said,  as  he  handed  her  up.  "It  is  rather  longer, 
but  I  think  it  is  worth  it.  This  blaze  is  too  much 
for  you." 

They  left  the  thronged  highroad,  and  turned  up 
a  rutty  track  leading  directly  into  the  hills. 

Their  way  lay  between  great,  glaring  boulders  of 
naked  rock.  Here  and  there  tufts  of  grass  grew 
beside  the  stony  track,  but  they  were  brown  and 
scorched,  and  served  only  to  emphasise  the  barren- 
ness of  the  land. 

For  a  while  they  drove  in  silence,  mounting 
steadily  the  whole  time. 

Suddenly  Fletcher  spoke.  "We  shall  come  to 
some  shade  directly.  There  is  a  belt  of  pine  trees 
round  the  next  curve." 

The  words  were  hardly  uttered  when  unexpect- 
edly the  mare  shied,  struck  the  ground  violently 
with  all  four  feet  together,  and  bolted. 

Beryl  heard  an  exclamation  from  the  native 
groom,  and  half-turned  to  see  him  clinging  to  the 
back  with  a  face  of  terror.  She  herself  was  more 


124  The  Swindler 

astonished  than  frightened.  She  gripped  the  rail 
instinctively,  for  the  cart  was  jolting  horribly  as 
the  mare,  stretched  out  like  a  greyhound,  fled  at 
full  gallop  along  the  stony  way. 

She  saw  Fletcher,  with  his  feet  against  the  board, 
dragging  backwards  with  all  his  strength.  He  was 
quite  white,  but  exceedingly  collected,  and  she 
was  instantly  quite  certain  that  he  knew  what  he 
was  about. 

There  followed  a  few  breathless  moments  of 
headlong  galloping,  during  which  they  swayed 
perilously  from  side  to  side,  and  were  many  times 
on  the  verge  of  being  overturned.  Then,  the 
ground  rising  steeply,  the  mare's  wild  pace  became 
modified,  developed  into  a  spasmodic  canter,  be- 
came a  difficult  trot,  finally  slowed  to  a  walk. 

Fletcher  pulled  up  altogether,  and  turned  to  the 
silent  woman  beside  him.  "Mrs.  Denvers,  you 
are  splendid!"  he  said  simply. 

She  laughed  rather  tremulously.  The  tension 
over,  she  was  feeling  very  weak. 

The  saice  was  already  at  the  mare's  head,  and 
Fletcher  let  the  reins  go.  He  dismounted  without 
another  word  and  went  round  to  her  side.  Still 
silent,  he  held  up  his  hands  to  her  and  lifted  her 
down  as  though  she  had  been  a  child.  He  was 
smiling  a  little,  but  he  was  still  very  pale. 

As  for  Beryl,  the  moment  her  feet  touched  the 
ground  she  felt  as  if  the  whole  world  had  turned  to 
liquid  and  were  swimming  around  her  in  a  gigantic 
whirlpool  of  floating  impressions. 


The  Nonentity  125 

"Ah,  you  are  faint!"  she  heard  him  say. 

And  she  made  a  desperate  and  quite  futile  effort 
to  assure  him  that  she  was  nothing  of  the  sort. 
But  she  knew  that  no  more  than  a  blur  of  sound 
came  from  her  lips,  and  even  while  she  strove  to 
make  herself  intelligible  the  floating  world  became 
a  dream,  and  darkness  fell  upon  her. 


Gradually,  very  gradually,  the  mists  cleared 
from  Beryl's  brain,  and  she  opened  her  eyes 
dreamily,  and  stared  about  her  with  a  feeling  that 
she  had  been  asleep  for  years.  She  was  lying 
propped  upon  carriage-cushions  in  the  shade  of  an 
immense  boulder,  and  as  she  discovered  this  fact, 
memory  flashed  swiftly  back  upon  her.  She  had 
fainted,  of  course,  in  her  foolish,  weak,  womanly 
fashion.  But  where  was  Major  Fletcher?  The 
heat  was  intense,  so  intense  that  breathing  in  that 
prone  position  seemed  impossible.  Gasping,  she 
raised  herself.  Surely  she  was  not  absolutely 
alone  in  this  arid  wilderness! 

She  was  not.  In  an  instant  she  realised  this, 
and  wonder  rather  than  fear  possessed  her. 

There,  squatting  on  his  haunches,  not  ten  paces 
from  her,  was  the  old  snake-charmer.  His  basket 
was  by  his  side;  his  chuddah  drooped  low  over  his 
face;  he  sat  quite  motionless,  save  for  a  certain 
palsied  quivering,  which  she  had  observed  before. 
He  looked  as  if  he  had  been  in  that  place  and  atti- 
tude for  many  years. 


126  The  Swindler 

Beryl  leaned  her  head  upon  her  hand  and  closed 
her  eyes.  She  was  feeling  spent  and  sick.  He  did 
not  inspire  her  with  horror,  this  old  man.  She 
was  conscious  of  a  faint  sensation  of  disgust,  that 
was  all. 

A  few  seconds  later  she  looked  up  again,  wonder- 
ing afresh  whither  her  escort  could  have  betaken 
himself.  It  seemed  to  her  that  the  distance  be- 
tween herself  and  the  old  native  had  dwindled 
somewhat,  but  she  did  not  b'  stow  much  attention 
upon  him.  She  merely  noted  how  fiercely  the  sun 
beat  down  upon  his  shrouded  head,  and  wondered 
how  he  managed  to  endure  it. 

The  next  time  she  opened  her  eyes,  there  were 
scarcely  three  yards  between  them.  The  instant 
her  look  fell  upon  him  he  began  to  speak  in  a  thin, 
wiry  voice  of  great  humility. 

"Let  the  gracious  lady  pardon  her  servant,"  he 
said,  in  perfect  English.  "He  would  not  harm  a 
hair  of  her  head." 

She  raised  herself  to  an  upright  position  with  an 
effort.  Very  curiously  she  did  not  feel  in  the  least 
afraid.  By  an  abrupt  intuition,  wholly  inexplic- 
able, she  knew  that  the  man  1  id  something  to  tell 
her. 

"What  is  it?"  she  said. 

He  cringed  before  her. 

"Let  my  gracious  lady  have  patience.  It  is  no 
boon  that  her  servant  would  desire  of  her.  He 
would  only  speak  a  word  of  warning  in  the  mem- 
sahib'seax" 


The  Nonentity  127 

Beryl  had  begun  to  give  him  her  full  attention. 
She  had  a  feeling  that  she  had  seen  the  man  some- 
where before,  but  where  and  under  what  circum- 
stances she  could  not  recall.  It  was  no  moment  for 
retrospection  and  the  phantom  eluded  her. 

"What  is  it?"  she  said  again,  studying  him  with 
knitted  brows.  , 

He  bowed  himself  before  her  till  he  appeared  to 
be  no  more  than  a  bundle  of  dirty  linen. 

"Let  the  gracious  lady  be  warned  by  her  ser- 
vant," he  said.  "Fletcher  sahib  is  a  man  of  evil 
heart." 

Beryl's  eyes  widened.  Assuredly  this  was  the 
last  thing  she  had  expected  to  hear  from  such  a 
source. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  she  asked. 

He  grovelled  before  her,  his  head  almost  in  the 
dust. 

"  Mem- sahib  he  has  gone  for  water,  but  he  will 
soon  return.  And  he  will  lie  to  the  gracious  lady, 
and  tell  her  that  the  shaft  of  the  carriage  is  broken 
so  that  he  cannot  take  her  back.  But  it  is  not  so, 
most  gracious.  The  shaft  is  cracked,  indeed,  but 
it  is  not  beyond  repair.  Moreover,  it  was  cracked 
by  the  saice  at  his  master's  bidding,  while  the 
mem-sahib  was  at  the  fair." 

He  paused;  but  Beryl  said  nothing.  She  was 
listening  to  the  whole  story  in  speechless,  unfeigned 
astonishment. 

"Also,"  her  informant  proceeded,  "the  sahib's 
mare  was  frightened,  not  by  an  accident,  but  by  a 


128  The  Swindler 

trick.  It  was  the  sahib's  will  that  she  should  run 
away.  And  he  chose  this  road  so  that  he  might 
be  far  from  habitation,  well  knowing  that  for  every 
mile  on  the  lower  road  there  are  two  miles  to  be 
travelled  on  this.  Mem-sahib,  your  servant  has 
spoken,  and  he  prays  you  to  beware.  There  is 
danger  in  your  path." 

"But — but,"  gasped  Beryl,  "how do  you  know 
all  this?  What  makes  you  tell  me?  You  can't 
know  what  you  are  saying!" 

She  was  thoroughly  frightened  by  this  time,  and 
heat  and  faintness  were  alike  forgotten.  Incred- 
ible as  was  the  story  to  which  she  had  listened, 
there  was  about  it  a  vividness  that  made  it  terrify- 
ing. 

"But  I  don't  understand,"  she  said  helplessly, 
as  the  snake-charmer  remained  silent  to  her  ques- 
tions. "It  is  not  possible!  It  could  not  be!" 

He  lifted  his  head  a  little  and,  from  the  depths 
of  the  chuddah,  she  knew  that  piercing  eyes  sur- 
veyed her. 

"Mem-sahib, "  he  said,  "your  servant  knew  that 
this  would  happen,  and  he  came  here  swiftly  by  a 
secret  way  to  warn  you.  More,  he  knows  that 
when  Fletcher  sahib  returns,  he  will  speak  lightly 
of  the  accident,  so  that  the  mem-sahib  will  have  no 

ir.  '  A  broken  shaft  is  soon  mended, '  he  will  say. 
'  My  servant  has  returned  to  Farabad — to  a  man  he 
knows.  We  will  rest  under  the  trees  but  a  furlong 
from  this  place  till  he  comes  back.'  But,  most 
gracious,  he  will  not  come  back.  There  is  no 


The  Nonentity  129 

place  at  Farabad  at  this  time  of  the  fair  where 
the  work  could  be  done.  Moreover,  the  saice  has 
his  orders,  and  he  will  not  seek  one.  He  will  go 
back  to  Kundaghat  with  the  mare,  but  he  will 
walk  all  the  way.  It  is  fifteen  miles  from  here 
by  the  road.  He  will  not  reach  it  ere  nightfall. 
He  will  not  return  till  after  the  darkness  falls,  and 
then  he  will  miss  the  road.  He  will  not  find 
Fletcher  sahib  and  the  gracious  lady  before  the 
sunrise." 

Thus,  in  brief  but  telling  sentences,  the  old 
native  revealed  to  the  white-faced  woman  before 
him  the  whole  abominable  plot.  She  listened  to 
him  in  a  growing  agony  of  doubt.  Could  it  be? 
Was  it  by  any  means  possible  that  Fletcher,  desir- 
ing to  win  her,  but  despairing  of  lessening  the 
distance  she  maintained  between  them  by  any 
ordinary  method,  had  devised  this  foul  scheme  of 
compromising  her  in  the  eyes  of  society  in  order  to 
force  her  to  accept  him? 

Her  cheeks  burned  furiously  at  the  intolerable 
suspicion.  It  made  her  wholly  forget  that  the 
man  before  her  was  an  evil-looking  native  of  whom 
she  knew  nothing  whatever. 

With  sudden  impulse  she  turned  and  bestowed 
her  full  confidence  upon  him,  the  paint-smeared 
face  and  mumbling  beard  notwithstanding. 

"You  must  help  me,"  she  said  imperiously. 
"You  have  done  so  much.  You  must  do  more. 
Tell  me  how  I  am  to  get  back  to  Kundaghat." 

He  made  a  deferential  gesture. 


130  The  Swindler 

"The  mem-sahib  cannot  depart  before  the  major 
sahib  returns,"  he  said.  "Let  her  therefore  be 
faint  once  more,  and  let  him  minister  to  her.  Let 
her  hear  his  story,  and  judge  if  her  servant  has 
spoken  truly.  Then  let  the  gracious  lady  go  with 
him  into  the  shade  of  the  pine  trees  on  the  hill. 
When  she  is  there  let  her  discover  that  she  has  left 
behind  her  some  treasure  that  she  values — such  as 
the  golden  bangle  that  is  on  the  mem-sahib's  wrist. 
Let  her  show  distress,  and  Fletcher  sahib  shall  come 
back  to  seek  it.  Then  let  her  listen  for  the  scream 
of  a  jay,  and  rise  up  and  follow  it.  It  will  lead  her 
by  a  safe  and  speedy  way  to  Kundaghat.  It  will 
be  easy  for  the  mem-sahib  to  say  afterwards  that 
she  began  to  wander  and  lost  her  way,  till  at  last 
she  met  an  aged  man  who  guided  her." 

Yes,  quite  easy.  She  assimilated  this  subtle  sug- 
gestion, for  the  first  time  in  her  life  welcoming 
craft.  Of  the  extreme  risk  of  the  undertaking  she 
was  too  agitated  to  think.  To  get  away  was  her 
one  all-possessing  desire. 

While  she  thus  desperately  reviewed  the  situa- 
tion, the  snake-charmer  began,  with  much  grunting 
and  mowing,  to  gather  himself  together  for  depar- 
ture. She  watched  him,  feeling  that  she  would 
have  gladly  detained  him  had  that  been  possible. 
Slowly,  with  palsied  movements,  he  at  length  arose 
and  took  up  his  basket,  doubled  himself  up  before 
her  with  an  almost  ludicrous  excess  of  deference, 
and  finally  hobbled  away. 


The  Nonentity  131 

VI 

There  fell  a  step  upon  the  parched  earth,  and 
with  a  start  Beryl  turned  her  head.  She  had 
seated  herself  again,  but  it  was  impossible  to  feign 
limpness  with  every  pulse  at  the  gallop.  She 
looked  up  at  Fletcher  with  a  desperate  smile. 

He  wore  a  knotted  handkerchief  on  his  head  to 
protect  it  from  the  sun,  and  in  his  hat,  which  he 
balanced  with  great  care  in  both  hands,  he  carried 
water. 

"  I  am  glad  to  see  you  looking  better,"  he  said  as 
he  reached  her.  "I  am  afraid  there  isn't  much 
more  than  a  cupful  left.  I  had  to  go  nearly  half  a 
mile  to  get  it,  and  it  has  been  running  out  steadily 
all  the  way  back." 

He  knelt  down  before  her,  deep  concern  on  his 
sunburnt  face.  Reluctantly,  out  of  sheer  grati- 
tude, she  dipped  her  handkerchief  in  the  tepid 
drain,  and  bathed  her  face  and  hands. 

"I  am  so  sorry  to  give  you  all  this  trouble,"  she 
murmured. 

He  srrrled  with  raised  brows. 

"I  think  I  ought  to  say  that.  You  will 
never  trust  yourself  to  me  again  after  this 
experience." 

She  looked  at  him  with  a  guilty  sense  of  dupli- 
city. 

"I — scarcely  see  how  you  were  to  blame  for 
it,"  she  said,  rather  faintly. 

He  surveyed  her  for  a  moment  in  silence.     Then, 


132  The  Swindler 

"I  hardly  know  how  to  break  it  to  you,"  he  said. 
"I  am  afraid  the  matter  is  rather  more  serious  than 
you  think." 

She  forced  a  smile.  This  delicate  preparation 
was  far  more  difficult  to  endure  than  the  actual 
calamity  to  which  it  paved  the  way. 

"Please  don't  treat  me  like  a  coward, "  she  said. 
"I  know  I  was  foolish  enough  to  faint,  but  it  was 
not  so  much  from  fright  as  from  the  heat." 

"You  behaved  splendidly,"  he  returned,  his 
dark  eyes  still  intently  watching  her.  "But  this  is 
not  so  much  a  case  for  nerve  as  for  resignation. 
Mrs.  Denvers,  you  will  never  forgive  me,  I  know. 
That  jump  of  the  mare's  damaged  one  of  the  shafts. 
The  wonder  is  it  didn't  break  altogether.  I  have 
had  to  send  the  saice  back  to  Farabad  to  try  and 
get  it  patched  up,  and  there  is  very  little  chance  of 
our  getting  back  to  Kundaghat  for  two  or  three 
kours  to  come." 

All  the  time  that  he  was  communicating  this 
tragic  news,  Beryl's  eyes  were  upon  his  face.  She 
paid  no  heed  to  his  scrutiny.  Simply,  with  abso- 
lute steadiness,  she  returned  it. 

And  she  detected  nothing — nothing  but  the 
most  earnest  regret,  the  most  courteous  anxiety 
regarding  her  welfare.  Could  it  all  be  a  monstrous 
lie,  she  asked  herself.  And  yet  it  was  to  the 
smallest  detail  the  story  she  had  been  warned  to 
expect. 

" But  surely, "  she  said,  at  last,  "we  cannot  be  so 
very  far  from  Kundaghat?" 


The  Nonentity  133 

"No  great  distance  as  the  crow  flies,"  said 
Fletcher,  "but  a  good  many  miles  by  road.  I  am 
afraid  there  is  nothing  for  it  but  to  wait  till  the 
mischief  is  repaired.  My  only  comfort  is  that  you 
will  feel  the  heat  less  in  returning  later  in  the  day. 
There  are  some  pine  trees  on  the  other  side  of  the 
rise  where  you  can  rest.  If  I  had  only  brought 
something  to  eat  I  should  have  less  cause  to  blame 
myself.  As  it  is,  do  you  think  you  will  be  able  to 
holdout?" 

She  smiled  at  that. 

"Oh,  I  am  not  starving  yet,"  she  said,  with 
more  assurance ;  "but  I  do  not  see  the  use  of  sitting 
still  under  the  circumstances.  I  am  quite  rested 
now.  Let  us  walk  back  to  Farabad,  and  we  might 
start  on  foot  along  the  lower  road  for  Kundaghat, 
and  tell  your  man  to  overtake  us." 

Notwithstanding  the  resolution  she  infused  into 
her  voice,  she  made  the  proposal  somewhat  breath- 
lessly, for  she  knew — in  her  heart  she  knew — that 
it  would  be  instantly  negatived. 

And  so  it  was.  His  face  expressed  sharp 
surprise  for  a  second,  developing  into  prompt 
remonstrance. 

"My  dear  Mrs.  Denvers,  in  this  heat!  You 
have  not  the  least  idea  of  what  it  would  mean. 
You  simply  have  not  the  strength  for  such  a 
venture." 

But  Beryl  was  growing  bolder  in  the  face  of 
emergency.  She  coolly  set  his  assurance  aside. 

"I  do  not  quite  agree  with  you,"  she  said.     "I 


134  The  Swindler 

am  a  better  walker  than  you  seem  to  imagine,  and 
the  walk  into  Farabad  certainly  would  not  kill  me. 
We  might  be  able  to  hire  some  conveyance  there — 
a  tonga  or  even  a  bullock-cart" — she  laughed  a 
little — "would  be  better  than  nothing." 

But  Fletcher  persistently  shook  his  head. 

"I  am  sorry — horribly  sorry,  but  it  would  be 
downright  madness  to  attempt  it." 

"Nevertheless,"  said  Beryl  very  quietly,  "I 
mean  to  do  so." 

She  saw  his  brows  meet  for  a  single  instant,  and 
she  was  conscious  of  a  sick  feeling  at  her  heart  that 
made  her  physically  cold.  Doubt  was  emerging 
into  deadly  conviction. 

Suddenly  he  leaned  towards  her,  and  spoke  very 
earnestly. 

i  "Mrs.  Denvers,  please  believe  that  I  regret  this 
mischance  every  whit  as  much  as  you  do.  But, 
after  all,  it  is  only  a  mischance,  and  we  may  be 
thankful  it  was  no  worse.  Shall  we  not  treat  it  as 
such,  and  make  the  best  of  it?" 

He  was  looking  her  straight  in  the  face  as  he  said 
it,  but,  steady  as  was  his  gaze,  she  was  not  re- 
assured. Quick  as  lightning  came  the  thought — it 
was  almost  like  an  inner  voice  warning  her — that 
he  must  not  suspect  the  fact.  Whatever  happened 
she  must  veil  her  uneasiness,  which  she  feared  had 
been  already  far  too  obvious. 

Quietly  she  rose  and  expressed  her  willingness 
to  go  with  him  into  the  shade  of  the  trees. 

They  stood  grouped  on  the  side  of  a  hill,  a  thick 


The  Nonentity  135 

belt  through  which  the  scorching  sun-rays  slanted 
obliquely,  turning  the  straight  brown  trunks  to 
ruddiest  gold.  There  was  more  air  here  than  in 
the  valley,  and  it  was  a  relief  to  sit  down  in  the 
shade  and  rest  upon  a  fallen  tree. 

Fletcher  threw  himself  down  upon  the  ground. 
"We    can    watch    the    road    from    here,"    he 
remarked. 
"We  should  see  the  dog-cart  about  a  mile  away." 

This  was  true.  Barren,  stony,  and  deserted,  the 
road  twisted  in  and  out  below  them,  visible  from 
that  elevation  for  a  considerable  distance.  Beryl 
looked  over  it  in  silence.  Her  heart  rTas  beating  in 
great  suffocating  throbs,  while  she  strove  to  sum- 
mon her  resolution.  Could  she  do  this  thing? 
Dared  she?  On  the  other  hand,  could  she  face  the 
alternative  risk?  Her  face  burned  fiercely  yet 
again  as  she  thought  of  it. 

Furtively  she  began  to  study  the  man  stretched 
out  upon  the  ground  close  to  her,  and  a  sudden, 
surging  regret  went  through  her.  If  only  it  had 
been  Lord  Ronald  lounging  there  beside  her,  how 
utterly  different  would  have  been  her  attitude! 
Foolish  and  inept  he  might  be — he  was — but,  as  he 
himself  had  comfortably  remarked,  a  man  might 
be  worse.  She  trusted  him  implicitly,  every  one 
trusted  him.  It  was  impossible  to  do  otherwise. 

Had  any  one  accused  him  of  laying  a  trap  for  her, 
she  would  have  treated  the  suggestion  as  too  con- 
temptible for  notice.  A  sharp  sigh  escaped  her. 
Why  had  he  taken  her  so  promptly  at  her  word? 


136  The  Swindler 

He  could  never  have  seriously  cared  for  her.    Prob- 
ably it  was  not  in  him  to  care. 
{•    "You  are  not  comfortable?"  said  Fletcher. 

She  started  at  the  sound  of  his  voice,  and  with 
desperate  impulse  took  action  before  her  courage 
could  fail  her. 

"Major  Fletcher,  I — have  lost  the  bangle  you 
gave  me.  It  slipped  off  down  by  that  big  rock 
when  I  was  feeling  ill.  And  I  must  have  left  it 
there.  Should  you  very  much  mind  fetching  it  for 
me?" 

She  felt  her  face  grow  crimson  as  she  made  the 
request,  and  she  could  not  look  at  him,  knowing  too 
well  what  he  would  think  of  her  confusion.  She 
felt,  indeed,  as  if  slie  could  never  look  him  in  the 
face  again. 

Fletcher  sat  quite  still  for  a  few  seconds.  Then, 
"But  it's  of  no  consequence,  is  it?"  he  said.  "I 
will  fetch  it  for  you,  of  course,  if  you  like,  but  I 
could  give  you  fifty  more  like  it.  And  in  any  case 
we  can  find  it  when  Subdul  comes  with  the  dog- 
cart." 

He  was  reluctant  to  leave  her.  She  saw  it 
instantly,  and  tingled  at  the  discovery.  With  a 
great  effort  she  made  her  final  attempt. 

"Please, "  she  said,  with  downcast  eyes,  " I  want 
it  mow." 

He  was  on  his  feet  at  once,  looking  down  at  her. 
"  I  will  fetch  it  with  the  greatest  pleasure, "  he  said. 

And,  not  waiting  for  her  thanks,  he  turned  and 
left  her. 


The  Nonentity  137 

VII 

For  many  seconds  after  his  departure  Beryl  sat 
quite  rigid,  watching  his  tall  figure  pass  swiftly 
downwards  through  the  trees.  She  did  not  stir 
till  he  had  reached  the  road,  then,  with  a  sudden 
deep  breath,  she  rose. 

At  the  same  instant  there  sounded  behind  her, 
high  up  the  hillside  among  the  pine  trees,  the 
piercing  scream  of  a  jay. 

It  startled  her,  for  she  had  not  been  listening  for 
it.  All  her  thoughts  had  been  concentrated  upon 
the  man  below  her.  But  this  distant  cry  brought 
her  back,  and  sharply  she  turned. 

Again  came  the  cry,  unmusical,  insistent.  She 
glanced  nervously  around,  but  met  only  the  bright 
eyes  of  a  squirrel  on  a  branch  above  her. 

Again  it  came,  arrogantly  this  time,  almost 
imperiously.  It  seemed  to  warn  her  that  there  was 
no  time  for  indecision.  She  felt  as  though  some 
mysterious  power  were  drawing  her,  and,  gathering 
her  strength,  she  began  impetuously  to  mount  the 
hill  that  stretche  ~1  up  behind  her,  covered  with  pine 
trees  as  far  as  she  could  see.  It  was  slippery  with 
pine  needles,  and  she  stumbled  a  good  deal,  but  she 
faltered  no  longer  in  her  purpose.  She  had  done 
with  indecision. 

She  had  climbed  some  distance  before  she  heard 
again  the  guiding  signal.  It  sounded  away  to  her 
right,  and  she  turned  aside  at  once  to  follow  it.  In 
that  instant,  glancing  downwards  through  the 


138  The  Swindler 

long,  straight  stems,  she  saw  Fletcher  far  below, 
just  entering  the  wood.  Her  heart  leapt  wildly  at 
the  sight.  She  almost  stopped  in  her  agitation. 
But  the  discordant  bird-call  sounded  yet  again, 
louder  and  more  compelling  than  before,  and  she 
turned  as  a  needle  to  a  magnet  and  followed. 

The  growth  of  pine  trees  became  denser  as  she 
proceeded.  It  seemed  to  close  her  in  and  swallow 
her.  But  only  once  again  did  fear  touch  her,  and 
that  was  when  she  heard  Fletcher's  voice,  very 
far  away  but  unmistakable,  calling  to  her  by 
name. 

;,>  With  infinite  relief,  still  following  her  unseen 
guide,  at  last  she  began  to  descend.  The  ground 
sloped  sharply  downwards,  and  creeping  under- 
growth began  to  make  her  progress  difficult.  She 
pressed  on,  however,  and  at  length,  hearing  the 
tinkle  of  running  water,  realised  that  she  was 
approaching  one  of  the  snow-fed  mountain  streams 
that  went  to  swell  the  sacred  waters  that  flowed  by 
the  temple  at  Farabad. 

•  She  plunged  downwards  eagerly,  for  she  was  hot 
and  thirsty,  coming  out  at  last  upon  the  brink  of 
a  stream  that  gurgled  over  stones  between  great 
masses  of  undergrowth. 

"Will  the  mem-sahib  deign  to  drink?"  a  deferen- 
tial voice  asked  behind  her. 

She  looked  round  sharply  to  see  the  old  snake- 
charmer,  bent  nearly  double  with  age  and  humility, 
meekly  offering  her  a  small  brass  drinking-vessel. 

His  offer  surprised  her,  knowing  the  Hindu's 


The  Nonentity  139 

horror  of  a  stranger's  polluting  touch,  but  she 
accepted  it  without  question.  Stooping,  she 
scooped  up  a  cupful  of  the  clean  water  and 
drank. 

The  draught  was  cold  as  ice  and  refreshed  her 
marvellously.  She  thanked  him  for  it  with  a 
smile. 

"And  now?"  she  said. 

He  bowed  profoundly,  and  taking  the  cup  he 
washed  it  very  carefully  in  the  stream.  Then,  de- 
precatingly,  he  spoke. 

"Mem-sahib,  it  is  here  that  we  cross  the  water." 

She  looked  at  the  rushing  stream  with  dismay. 
It  was  not  very  wide  but  she  saw  at  once  that  it 
was  beyond  a  leap.  She  fancied  that  the  swirling 
water  in  the  middle  indicated  depth. 

"Do  you  mean  I  must  wade?"  she  asked. 

He  made  a  cringing  gesture. 

"There  is  another  way,  most  gracious." 

She  gazed  at  him  blankly. 

"Another  way?" 

Again  he  bent  himself. 

"  If  the  mem-sahib  will  so  far  trust  her  servant." 

"But — but  how?"  she  asked,  somewhat  breath- 
lessly. "You  don't  mean — you  can't  mean " 

11  Mem-sahib, "  he  said  gently,  "it  will  not  be  the 
first  time  that  I  have  borne  one  of  your  race  in  my 
arms.  I  may  seem  old  to  you,  most  gracious,  but 
I  have  yet  the  vigour  of  manhood.  The  water  is 
swift  but  it  is  not  deep.  Let  the  mem-sahib  watch 
her  servant  cross  with  the  snake-basket,  and  she 


140  The  Swindler 

will  see  for  herself  that  he  speaks  the  truth.  He 
will  return  for  the  mem-sahib,  with  her  permission, 
and  will  bear  her  in  safety  to  the  farther  bank, 
whence  it  is  but  an  hour's  journey  on  foot  to 
Kundaghat." 

There  was  a  coaxing  touch  about  all  this  which 
was  not  lost  upon  Beryl.  He  was  horribly  ugly, 
she  thought  to  herself,  with  that  hideous  red  smear 
across  his  dusky  face ;  but  in  spite  of  this  she  felt  no 
fear.  Unprepossessing  he  might  be,  but  he  was  in 
no  sense  formidable. 

As  she  stood  considering  him  he  stooped  and, 
lifting  his  basket,  stepped  with  his  sandalled  feet 
into  the  stream.  His  long  white  garment  trailed 
unheeded  upon  the  water  which  rose  above  his 
knees  as  he  proceeded. 

Reaching  the  further  bank,  he  deposited  his 
burden  and  at  once  turned  back.  Beryl  was 
waiting  for  him.  For  some  reason  unknown  even 
to  herself,  she  had  made  up  her  mind  to  trust  this 
old  man. 

"If  the  most  gracious  will  deign  to  rest  her  arm 
upon  my  shoulder,"  he  suggested,  in  his  meek 
quaver. 

And  without  further  demur  she  complied. 

The  moment  he  lifted  her  she  knew  that  his 
strength  was  fully  equal  to  the  venture.  His  arms 
were  like  steel  springs.  He  grunted  a  little  to 
himself  as  he  bore  her  across,  but  he  neither  paused 
nor  faltered  till  he  set  her  upon  the  bank. 

"The  mem-sahib  will  soon  see  the  road  to  Kun- 


The  Nonentity  141 

daghat,"  he  observed  then.  "She  has  but  three 
miles  yet  to  go." 

"Only  three  miles  to  Kundaghat!"  she  ejacu- 
lated in  amazement. 

"Only  three  miles,  most  gracious."  For  the 
first  time  a  hint  of  pride  was  mingled  with  the 
humility  in  his  reedy  voice.  "The  mem-sahib  has 
travelled  hither  by  a  way  that  few  know." 

Beryl  was  fairly  amazed  at  the  news.  She  had 
believed  herself  to  be  many  miles  away.  She 
began  to  wonder  if  her  friend  in  need  would  con- 
sider the  few  rupees  she  had  left  adequate  reward 
for  his  pains.  Since  she  had  parted  with  Fletcher's 
gift,  she  reflected  that  she  had  nothing  else  of  value 
to  bestow. 

The  way  now  lay  uphill,  and  all  undergrowth 
soon  ceased.  They  came  out  at  last  through 
thinning  pine  trees  upon  the  crest  of  the  rise,  and 
from  here,  a  considerable  distance  below,  Beryl 
discerned  the  road  along  which  she  had  travelled 
with  Fletcher  that  morning. 

White  and  glaring  it  stretched  below  her,  till  at 
last  a  grove  of  mango  trees,  which  she  remembered 
to  be  less  than  a  mile  from  Kundaghat,  closed 
about  it,  hiding  it  from  view. 

"The  mem-sahib  will  need  her  servant  no  more, " 
said  her  guide,  pausing  slightly  behind  her  while 
she  studied  the  landscape  at  her  feet  with  the  road 
that  wound  through  the  valley. 

She  took  out  her  purse  quickly,  and  shook  its 
contents  into  her  hand.  He  had  been  as  good  as 


142  The  Swindler 

his  word,  but  she  knew  she  had  but  little  to  offer 
him  unless  he  would  accompany  her  all  the  way  to 
Kundaghat.  She  stopped  to  count  the  money 
before  she  turned — two  rupees  and  eight  annas. 
It  did  not  seem  a  very  adequate  reward  for  the 
service  he  had  rendered  her. 

With  this  thought  in  her  mind  she  slowly  turned. 

"This  is  all  I  have  with  me — "  she  began  to 
say,  and  broke  off  with  the  words  half -uttered. 

She  was  addressing  empty  air!  The  snake- 
charmer  had  vanished ! 

She  stood  staring  blankly.  She  had  not  been 
aware  of  any  movement.  It  was  as  if  the  earth 
had  suddenly  and  silently  gaped  and  swallowed 
him  while  her  back  was  turned. 

In  breathless  astonishment  she  moved  this  way 
and  that,  searching  for  him  among  the  trees  that 
seemed  to  grow  too  sparsely  to  afford  a  screen. 
But  she  searched  in  vain.  He  had  clean  gone,  and 
had  taken  his  repulsive  pet  with  him. 

Obviously,  then,  he  had  not  done  this  thing  for 
the  sake  of  reward. 

A  sense  of  uneasiness  began  to  possess  her,  and 
she  started  at  last  upon  her  downward  way,  feeling 
as  if  the  place  were  haunted. 

With  relief  she  reached  the  road  at  length,  and 
commenced  the  last  stage  of  the  return  journey. 
The  heat  was  terrific.  She  was  intensely  weary, 
and  beginning  to  be  footsore.  At  a  turn  in  the 
road  she  paused  a  moment,  looking  back  at  the 
pine-clad  hill  from  which  she  had  come ;  and  as  she 


The  Nonentity  143 

did  so,  distinct,  though  far  away  behind  her,  there 
floated  through  the  midday  silence  the  curious  note 
of  a  jay.  It  sounded  to  her  bewildered  senses  like 
a  cracked,  discordant  laugh. 

VIII 

On  the  following  afternoon  Major  Fletcher 
called,  but  he  was  not  admitted.  Beryl  was  re- 
ceiving no  one  that  day,  and  sent  him  an  uncom- 
promising message  to  that  effect.  He  lingered  to 
inquire  after  her  health,  and,  on  being  told  that  she 
had  overtired  herself  and  was  resting,  expressed 
his  polite  regret  and  withdrew. 

After  that,  somewhat  to  Beryl's  surprise,  he 
came  no  more  to  the  bungalow. 

She  remained  in  seclusion  for  several  days  after 
her  adventure,  so  that  fully  a  week  passed  before 
they  met. 

It  was  while  out  riding  one  morning  with  Mrs. 
Ellis  that  she  first  encountered  him.  The  meeting 
was  unexpected,  and,  conscious  of  a  sudden  rush 
of  blood  to  her  cheeks,  she  bestowed  upon  him 
her  haughtiest  bow.  His  grave  acknowledgment 
thereof  was  wholly  without  effrontery,  and  he 
made  no  attempt  to  speak  to  her. 

"Have  you  quarrelled  with  the  Major?"  asked 
Nina,  as  they  rode  on. 

"Of  course  not, "  Beryl  answered,  with  a  hint  of 
impatience. 

But  she  knew  that  if  she  wished  to  appear  at  her 


144  The  Swindler 

ease  she  must  not  be  too  icy.  She  felt  a  very  de- 
cided reluctance  to  take  her  friend  into  her  confi- 
dence with  regard  to  the  Farabad  episode.  There 
were  times  when  she  wondered  herself  if  she  were 
altogether  justified  in  condemning  Major  Fletcher 
unheard,  in  spite  of  the  evidence  against  him.  But 
she  had  no  intention  of  giving  him  an  opportunity 
to  vindicate  himself  if  she  could  possibly  avoid  do- 
ing so. 

In  this,  however,  circumstances  proved  too 
strong  for  her.  They  were  bound  to  meet  sooner 
or  later,  and  Fate  ordained  that  when  this 
should  occur  she  should  be  more  or  less  at  his 
mercy. 

The  occasion  was  an  affair  of  some  importance, 
being  a  reception  at  the  palace  of  the  native  prince 
who  dwelt  at  Farabad.  It  promised  to  be  a  func- 
tion of  supreme  magnificence;  it  was,  in  fact,  the 
chief  event  of  the  season,  and  the  Anglo-Indian 
society  of  Kundaghat  attended  it  in  force. 

Beryl  wenc  with  the  Commissioner  and  his  wife, 
but  in  the  crc  ;d  of  acquaintances  that  surrounded 
her  almost  from  the  moment  of  her  arrival  she  very 
speedily  drifted  away  from  them.  One  after  an- 
other claimed  her  attention,  and  almost  before 
she  knew  it  she  found  herself  moving  unattached 
through  the  throng. 

She  was  keenly  interested  in  the  brilliant  scene 
about  her.  Flashing  jewels  and  gorgeous  cos- 
tumes made  a  glittering  wonderland,  througk 
which  she  moved  as  one  beneath  a  spell.  The 


The  Nonentity  145 

magic  of  the  East  was  everywhere;  it  filled  the 
atmosphere  as  with  a  heavy  fragrance. 

She  had  withdrawn  a  little  from  the  stream  of 
guests,  and  was  standing  slightly  apart,  watching 
the  gorgeous  spectacle  in  the  splendidly  lighted 
hall,  when  a  tall  figure,  dressed  in  regimentals, 
came  quietly  up  and  stood  beside  her. 

With  a  start  she  recognised  Fletcher.  He  bent 
towards  her  instantly,  and  spoke. 

"  I  trust  that  you  have  now  quite  recovered  from 
your  fatigue,  Mrs.  Denvers." 

She  controlled  her  flush  before  it  had  time  to 
overwhelm  her. 

"Quite,  thank  you,"  she  replied,  speaking 
stifHy  because  she  could  not  at  the  moment  bring 
herself  to  do  otherwise. 

He  stood  beside  her  for  a  space  in  silence,  and 
she  wondered  greatly  what  was  passing  in  his 
mind. 

At  length,  "May  I  take  you  to  have  some 
supper?"  he  asked.  "Or  would  you  care  to  go 
outside?  The  gardens  are  worth  a  visit." 

Beryl  hesitated  momentarily.  To  have  supper 
with  him  meant  a  prolonged  tete-d-tete,  whereas 
merely  to  go  outside  for  a  few  minutes  among  a 
host  of  people  could  not  involve  her  in  any  serious 
embarrassment.  She  could  leave  him  at  any  mo- 
ment if  she  desired.  She  was  sure  to  see  some 
of  her  acquaintances.  Moreover,  to  seem  to  avoid 
him  would  make  him  think  she  was  afraid  of  him, 
and  her  pride  would  not  permit  this  possibility. 


146  The  Swindler 

"  Let  us  go  outside  for  a  little,  then, "  she  said. 

He  offered  her  his  arm,  and  the  next  moment 
was  leading  her  through  a  long,  thickly  carpeted 
passage  to  a  flight  of  marble  steps  that  led  down- 
wards into  the  palace-garden. 

He  did  not  speak  at  all ;  and  she,  without  glanc- 
ing at  him,  was  aware  of  a  very  decided  constraint 
in  his  silence.  She  would  not  be  disconcerted  by 
it.  She  was  determined  to  maintain  a  calm  atti- 
tude; but  her  heart  quickened  a  little  in  spite  of 
her.  She  saw  that  he  had  chosen  an  exit  that 
would  lead  them  away  from  the  crowd. 

Dumbly  they  descended  the  steps,  Fletcher  un- 
hesitatingly drawing  her  forward.  The  garden 
was  a  marvel  of  many-coloured  lights,  intricate  and 
bewildering  as  a  maze.  Its  paths  were  all  carpeted, 
and  their  feet  made  no  sound.  It  was  like  a 
dream-world. 

Here  and  there  were  nooks  and  glades  of  deepest 
shadow.  Through  one  of  these,  without  a  pause, 
Fletcher  led  her,  emerging  at  length  into  a  wonder- 
ful fairyland  where  all  was  blue — a  twilight  haunt, 
where  countless  tiny  globes  of  light  nestled  like 
sapphires  upon  every  shrub  and  tree,  and  a  slender 
fountain  rose  and  fell  tinkling  in  a  shallow  basin  of 
blue  stone. 

A  small  arbour,  domed  and  pillared  like  a  temple, 
stood  beside  the  fountain,  and  as  they  ascended  its 
marble  steps  a  strong  scent  of  sandalwood  fell  like 
a  haze  of  incense  upon  Beryl's  senses. 

There  was  no  light  within  the  arbour,  and  on  the 


The  Nonentity  147 

threshold  instinctively  she  stopped  short.  They 
were  as  much  alone  as  if  miles  instead  of  yards 
separated  them  from  the  buzzing  crowds  about  the 
palace. 

Instantly  Fletcher  spoke. 

' '  Go  in,  won't  you ?  It  isn't  really  dark.  There 
is  probably  a  couch  with  rugs  and  cushions." 

There  was,  and  she  sat  down  upon  it,  sinking  so 
low  in  downy  luxuriance  that  she  found  herself 
resting  not  far  from  the  floor.  But,  looking  out 
through  the  marble  latticework  into  the  blue 
twilight,  she  was  somewhat  reassured.  Though 
thick  foliage  obscured  the  stars,  it  was  not  really 
dark,  as  he  had  said. 

Fletcher  seated  himself  upon  the  top  step,  almost 
touching  her.  He  seemed  in  no  hurry  to  speak. 

The  only  sound  that  broke  the  stillness  was  the 
babble  of  the  fountain,  and  from  far  away  the  fitful 
strains  of  a  band  of  stringed  instruments. 

Slowly  at  length  he  turned  his  head,  just  as  his 
silence  was  becoming  too  oppressive  to  be  borne. 

"Mrs.  Denvers,"  he  said,  his  voice  very  delib- 
erate and  even,  "I  want  to  know  what  happened 
that  day  at  Farabad  to  make  you  decide  that  I 
was  not  a  fit  escort  for  you." 

It  had  come,  then.  He  meant  to  have  a  reckon- 
ing with  her.  A  sharp  tingle  of  dismay  went 
through  her  as  she  realised  it.  She  made  a  quick 
effort  to  avert  his  suspicion. 

"I  wandered,  and  lost  my  way,"  she  said. 
"And  then  I  met  an  old  native,  who  showed  me  a 


148  The  Swindler 

short  cut.  I  ought,  perhaps,  to  have  written  and 
explained." 

"That  was  not  all  that  happened,"  Fletcher 
responded  gravely.  "Of  course,  you  can  refuse  to 
tell  me  any  more.  I  am  absolutely  at  your  mercy. 
But  I  do  not  think  you  will  refuse.  It  isn't  treat- 
ing me  quite  fairly,  is  it,  to  keep  me  in  the  dark?" 

She  saw  at  once  that  to  fence  with  him  further 
was  out  of  the  question.  Quite  plainly  he  meant 
to  bring  her  to  book.  But  she  felt  painfully 
unequal  to  the  ordeal  before  her.  She  was  con- 
scious of  an  almost  physical  sense  of  shrinking. 

Nevertheless,  as  he  waited,  she  nerved  herself  at 
length  to  speak. 

"What  makes  you  think  that  something  hap- 
pened?" 

"It  is  fairly  obvious,  is  it  not?"  he  returned 
quietly.  "  I  could  not  very  easily  think  otherwise. 
If  you  will  allow  me  to  say  so,  your  device  was  not 
quite  subtle  enough  to  pass  muster.  Even  had 
you  dropped  that  bangle  by  inadvertence — which 
you  did  not — you  would  not,  in  the  ordinary  course 
of  things,  have  sent  me  off  post  haste  to  recover  it." 

"No?"  she  questioned,  with  a  faint  attempt  to 
laugh. 

"No,"  he  rejoined,  and  this  time  she  heard  a 
note  of  anger,  deep  and  unmistakable,  in  his  voice. 

She  drew  herself  together  as  it  reached  her.  It 
was  to  be  a  battle,  then,  and  instinctively  she 
knew  that  she  would  need  all  her  strength. 

"Well,"  she  said  finally,  affecting  an  assurance 


The  Nonentity  149 

she  was  far  from  feeling,  "I  have  no  objection  to 
your  knowing  what  happened  since  you  have  asked. 
In  fact,  perhaps, — as  you  suggest, — it  is  scarcely 
fair  that  you  should  not  know." 

"  Thank  you, "  he  responded,  with  a  hint  of  irony. 

But  she  found  it  difficult  to  begin,  and  she  could 
not  hide  it  from  him,  for  he  was  closely  watching 
her. 

He  softened  a  little  as  he  perceived  this. 

"Pray  don't  be  agitated,"  he  said.  "I  do  not 
for  a  moment  question  that  your  reason  for  what 
you  did  was  a  good  one.  I  am  only  asking  you  to 
tell  me  what  it  was." 

"I  know,"  she  answered.  "But  it  will  make 
you  angry,  and  that  is  why  I  hesitate." 

He  leaned  towards  her  slightly. 

"Can  it  matter  to  you  whether  I  am  angry  or 
not?" 

She  shivered  a  little. 

"  I  never  offend  any  one  if  I  can  help  it.  I  think 
it  is  a  mistake.  However,  you  have  asked  for  it. 
What  happened  was  this.  It  was  when  you  left 
me  to  get  some  water.  An  old  man,  a  native, 
came  and  'spoke  to  me.  Perhaps  I  was  foolish  to 
listen,  but  I  could  scarcely  have  done  otherwise. 
And  he  told  me — he  told  me  that  the  accident  to 
the  dogcart  was  not — not — ' '  She  paused,  search- 
ing for  a  word. 

"Genuine,"  suggested  Fletcher  very  quietly. 

She  accepted  the  word.  The  narration  was 
making  her  very  nervous. 


150  The  Swindler 

"Yes,  genuine.  He  told  me  that  the  saice  had 
cracked  the  shaft  beforehand,  that  there  was  no 
possibility  of  getting  it  repaired  at  Farabad,  that 
he  would  have  to  return  to  Kundaghat  and  might 
not,  probably  would  not,  come  back  for  us  before 
the  following  morning." 

Haltingly,  rather  breathlessly,  the  story  came 
from  her  lips.  It  sounded  monstrous  as  she  ut- 
tered it.  She  could  not  look  at  Fletcher,  but 
she  knew  that  he  was  angry;  something  in  the 
intense  stillness  of  his  attitude  told  her  this. 

"Please  go  on,"  he  said,  as  she  paused.  "You 
undertook  to  tell  me  the  whole  truth,  remember." 

With  difficulty  she  continued. 

"He  told  me  that  the  mare  was  frightened  by  a 
trick,  that  you  chose  the  hill-road  because  it  was 
lonely  and  difficult.  He  told  me  exactly  what  you 
would  say  when  you  came  back.  And — and  you 
said  it." 

"And  that  decided  you  to  play  a  trick  upon 
me  and  escape?"  questioned  Fletcher.  "Your 
friend's  suggestion,  I  presume?" 

His  words  fell  with  cold  precision ;  they  sounded 
as  if  they  came  through  his  teeth. 

She  assented  almost  inaudibly.  He  made  her 
feel  contemptible. 

"And  afterwards?"  he  asked  relentlessly. 

She  made  a  final  effort;  there  was  that  in  his 
manner  that  frightened  her. 

"Afterwards,  he  gave  a  signal — it  was  the  ciy  of 
a  jay — for  me  to  follow.  And  he  led  me  over  the 


The  Nonentity  151 

hill  to  a  stream  where  he  waited  for  me.  We 
crossed  it  together,  and  very  soon  after  he  pointed 
out  the  valley-road  below  us,  and  left  me." 

"You  rewarded  him?"  demanded  Fletcher 
swiftly. 

"No;  I — I  was  prepared  to  do  so,  but  he  dis- 
appeared." 

"What  was  he  like?" 

She  hesitated. 

"Mrs.  Delivers!"     His  tone  was  peremptory. 

"I  do  not  feel  bound  to  tell  you  that, "  she  said, 
in  a  low  voice. 

"  I  have  a  right  to  know  it, "  he  responded  firmly. 

And  after  a  moment  she  gave  in.  The  man  was 
probably  far  away  by  this  time.  She  knew  that 
the  fair  was  over. 

"It  was — the  old  snake-charmer." 

"The  man  we  saw  at  Farabad?" 

"Yes." 

Fletcher  received  the  information  in  silence,  and 
several  seconds  dragged  away  while  he  digested  it. 
She  even  began  to  wonder  if  he  meant  to  say  any- 
thing further,  almost  expecting  him  to  get  up  and 
stalk  away,  too  furious  for  speech. 

But  at  length,  very  unexpectedly  and  very 
quietly,  he  spoke. 

"Would  it  be  of  any  use  for  me  to  protest  my 
innocence?" 

She  did  not  know  how  to  answer  him. 

He  proceeded  with  scarcely  a  pause : 

"  It  seems  to  me  that  my  guilt  has  been  taken  for 


152  The  Swindler 

granted  in  such  a  fashion  that  any  attempt  on  my 
part  to  clear  myself  would  be  so  much  wasted 
effort.  It  simply  remains  for  you  to  pass  sen- 
tence." 

She  lifted  her  head  for  the  first  time,  startled  out 
of  all  composure.  His  cool  treatment  of  the  mat- 
ter was  more  disconcerting  than  any  vehement 
protestations.  It  was  almost  as  though  he  ac- 
knowledged the  offence  and  swept  it  aside  with 
the  same  breath  as  of  no  account.  Yet  it  was 
incredible,  this  view  of  the  case.  There  must  be 
some  explanation.  He  would  never  dare  to  insult 
her  thus. 

Impulsively  she  rose,  inaction  becoming  unen- 
durable. He  stood  up  instantly,  and  they  faced 
one  another  in  the  weird  blue  twilight. 

"I  think  I  have  misunderstood  you!"  she  said 
breathlessly,  and  there  stopped  dead,  for  some- 
thing— something  in  his  face  arrested  her. 

The  words  froze  upon  her  lips.  She  drew  back 
with  a  swift,  instinctive  movement..  In  one  flash- 
ing second  of  revelation  unmistakable  she  knew 
that  she  had  done  him  no  injustice.  Her  eyes  had 
met  his,  and  had  sunk  dismayed  before  the  fierce 
passion  that  had  flamed  back  at  her. 

In  the  pause  that  followed  she  heard  her  own 
heartbeats,  quick  and  hard,  like  the  flying  feet  of  a 
hunted  animal.  Then — for  she  was  a  woman,  and 
instinct  guided  her — she  covered  up  her  sudden 
fear,  and  faced  him  with  stately  courage. 

"Let  us  go  back,"  she  said. 


The  Nonentity  153 

"You  have  nothing  to  say  to  me?"  he  asked. 

She  shook  her  head  in  silence,  and  made  as  if  to 
depart. 

But  he  stood  before  her,  hemming  her  in.  He 
did  not  appear  to  notice  her  gesture. 

"But  I  have  something  to  say  to  you!"  he 
said.  And  in  his  voice,  for  all  its  quietness,  was 
a  note  that  made  her  tremble.  "Something  to 
which  I  claim  it  as  my  right  that  you  should 
listen." 

She  faced  him  proudly,  though  she  was  white  to 
the  lips. 

"I  thought  you  had  refused  to  plead  your  inno- 
cence," she  said. 

"  I  have, "  he  returned.     "  I  do.     But  yet " 

"Then  I  will  not  hear  another  word, "  she  broke 
in.  "Let  me  pass!" 

She  was  splendid  as  she  stood  there  confronting 
him,  perhaps  more  splendid  than  she  had  ever  been 
before.  She  had  reached  the  ripe  beauty  of  her 
womanhood.  She  would  never  be  more  magnifi- 
cent than  she  was  at  that  moment.  The  magic  of 
her  went  to  the  man's  head  like  wine.  Till  that 
instant  he  had  to  a  great  extent  controlled  himself, 
but  that  was  the  turning-point.  She  dazzled  him, 
she  intoxicated  him,  she  maddened  him. 

The  savagery  in  him  flared  into  a  red  blaze  of 
passion.  Without  another  word  he  caught  her 
suddenly  to  him,  and  before  she  could  begin  to 
realise  his  intention  he  had  kissed  her  fiercely 
upon  the  lips. 


154  The  Swindler 

IX 

The  moments  that  followed  were  like  a  ghastly 
nightmare  to  Beryl,  for,  struggle  as  she  might,  she 
knew  herself  to  be  helpless.  Having  once  passed 
the  bounds  of  civilisation,  he  gave  full  rein  to  his 
savagery.  And  again  and  yet  again,  holding  her 
crushed  to  him,  he  kissed  her  shrinking  face.  He 
was  as  a  man  possessed,  and  once  he  laughed — a 
devilish  laugh — at  the  weakness  of  her  resistance. 

And  then  quite  suddenly  she  felt  his  grip  relax. 
He  let  her  go  abruptly,  so  that  she  tottered  and 
almost  fell,  only  saving  herself  by  one  of  the  pillars 
of  the  arbour. 

A  great  surging  was  in  her  brain,  a  surging  that 
nearly  deafened  her.  She  was  too  spent,  too  near 
to  swooning,  to  realise  what  it  was  that  had 
wrought  her  deliverance.  She  could  only  cling 
gasping  and  quivering  to  her  support  while  the 
tumult  within  her  gradually  subsided. 

It  was  several  seconds  later  that  she  began  to  be 
aware  of  something  happening,  of  some  commotion 
very  near  to  her,  of  trampling  to  and  fro,  and  now 
and  again  of  a  voice  that  cursed.  These  things 
quickly  goaded  her  to  a  fuller  consciousness. 
Exhausted  though  she  was,  she  managed  to  collect 
her  senses  and  look  down  upon  the  spectacle  below 
her. 

There,  on  the  edge  of  the  fountain,  two  figures 
swayed  and  fought.  One  of  them  she  saw  at  a 
glance  was  Fletcher.  She  had  a  glimpse  of  his  face 


The  Nonentity  155 

in  the  uncanny  gloom,  and  it  was  set  and  devilish, 
bestial  in  its  cruelty.  The  other — the  other — she 
stared  and  gasped  and  stared  again — the  other, 
beyond  all  possibility  of  doubt,  was  the  ancient 
snake-charmer  of  Farabad. 

Yet  it  was  he  who  cursed — and  cursed  in  excel- 
lent English — with  a  fluency  that  none  but  English 
lips  could  possibly  have  achieved.  And  the  reason 
for  his  eloquence  was  not  far  to  seek.  For  he  was 
being  thrashed,  thrashed  scientifically,  mercilessly, 
and  absolutely  thoroughly — by  the  man  whom  he 
had  dared  to  thwart. 

He  was  draped  as  before  in  his  long  native  gar- 
ment— and  this,  though  it  hung  in  tatters,  ham- 
pered his  movements,  and  must  have  placed  him 
at  a  hopeless  disadvantage  even  had  he  not  been 
completely  outmatched  in  the  first  place. 

Standing  on  the  steps  above  them,  Beryl  took 
in  the  whole  situation,  and  in  a  trice  her  own  weak- 
ness was  a  thing  of  the  past.  Amazed,  incredulous, 
bewildered  as  she  was,  the  urgent  need  for  action 
drove  all  questioning  from  her  mind.  There  was  no 
time  for  that.  With  a  cry,  she  sprang  downwards. 

And  in  that  instant  Fletcher  delivered  a  smash- 
ing blow  with  the  whole  of  his  strength,  and  struck 
his  opponent  down. 

He  fell  with  a  thud,  striking  his  head  against  the 
marble  of  the  fountain,  and  to  Beryl's  horror  he 
did  not  rise  again.  He  simply  lay  as  he  had  fallen, 
with  arms  flung  wide  and  face  upturned,  motion- 
less, inanimate  as  a  thing  of  stone. 


156  The  Swindler 

In  an  agony  she  dropped  upon  her  knees  beside 
him. 

"  You  brute ! "  she  cried  to  Fletcher.  ' '  Oh,  you 
brute!" 

She  heard  him  laugh  in  answer,  a  fierce  and  cruel 
laugh,  but  she  paid  no  further  heed  to  him.  She 
was  trying  to  raise  the  fallen  man,  dabbing  the 
blood  that  ran  from  a  cut  on  his  temple,  lifting  his 
head  to  lie  in  the  hollow  of  her  arm.  Her  incre- 
dulity had  wholly  passed.  She  knew  him  now 
beyond  all  question.  He  would  never  manage  to 
deceive  her  again. 

"Speak  to  me!  Oh,  do  speak  to  me!"  she 
entreated.  "Ronald,  open  your  eyes!  Please 
open  your  eyes!" 

"He  is  only  stunned."  It  was  Fletcher's  voice 
above  her.  "Leave  him  alone.  He  will  soon 
come  to  his  senses.  Serves  him  right  for  acting 
the  clown  in  this  get-up." 

She  looked  up  sharply  at  that  and  a  perfect 
tempest  of  indignation  took  possession  of  her, 
banishing  all  fear. 

"What  he  did,"  she  said,  in  a  voice  that  shook 
uncontrollably,  "was  for  my  sake  alone,  that  he 
might  be  able  to  protect  me  from  cads  and  black- 
guards. I  refuse  to  leave  him  like  this,  but  the 
sooner  you  go,  the  better.  I  will  never — never  as 
long  as  I  live — speak  to  you  again!" 

Her  blazing  eyes,  and  the  positive  fury  of  her 
voice,  must  have  carried  conviction  to  the  most 
obtuse,  and  this  Fletcher  certainly  was  not.  He 


The  Nonentity  157 

stood  a  moment,  looking  down  at  her  with  an 
insolence  that  might  have  frightened  her  a  little 
earlier,  but  which  now  she  met  with  a  new  strength 
that  he  felt  himself  powerless  to  dominate.  She 
was  not  thinking  of  herself  at  all  just  then,  and 
perhaps  that  was  the  secret  of  her  ascendancy. 
His  own  brute  force  crumbled  to  nothing  before  it, 
and  he  knew  that  he  was  beaten. 

Without  a  word  he  bowed  to  her,  smiling  ironi- 
cally, and  turned  upon  his  heel. 

She  drew  a  great  breath  of  relief  as  she  saw  him 
go.  She  felt  as  though  a  horrible  oppression  had 
passed  out  of  the  atmosphere.  That  fairy  haunt 
with  its  bubbling  fountain  and  sapphire  lamps 
was  no  longer  an  evil  place. 

She  bent  again  over  her  senseless  companion. 

"Ronald!"  she  whispered.  "My  dear,  my 
dear,  can't  you  hear  me?  Oh,  if  only  you  would 
open  your  eyes!" 

She  soaked  her  handkerchief  in  the  water  and 
held  it  to  the  wound  upon  his  forehead.  Even  as 
she  did  it,  she  felt  him  stir,  and  the  next  moment 
his  eyes  were  open,  gazing  straight  up  into  her 
own. 

"Damn  the  brute!"  said  Lord  Ronald  faintly. 

"You  are  better?"  she  whispered  thankfully. 

His  hand  came  upwards  gropingly,  and  took  the 
soaked  handkerchief  from  her.  He  dabbed  his 
face  with  it,  and  slowly,  with  her  assistance,  sat  up. 

"Where  is  he?"  he  asked. 

"He  has  gone,"  she  told  him.  "I — ordered 
him  to  go." 


158  The  Swindler 

"Better  late  than  never,"  said  Lord  Ronald 
thoughtfully. 

He  leaned  upon  the  edge  of  the  fountain,  still 
mopping  the  blood  from  his  face,  till,  suddenly 
feeling  his  beard,  he  stripped  it  off  with  a  gesture  of 
impatience. 

"Afraid  I  must  have  given  you  a  nasty  shock, " 
he  said.  "I  didn't  expect  to  be  mauled  like 
this." 

"Please — please  don't  apologise,"  she  begged 
him,  with  a  sound  that  was  meant  for  a  laugh,  but 
was  in  effect  more  like  a  sob. 

He  turned  towards  her  in  his  slow  way. 

"I'm  not  apologising.  Only — you  know — I've 
taken  something  of  a  liberty,  though,  on  my 
honour,  it  was  well  meant.  If  you  can  overlook 
that- 

"  I  shall  never  overlook  it, "  she  said  tremulously. 

He  put  the  chuddah  back  from  his  head  and 
regarded  her  gravely.  His  face  was  swollen  and 
discoloured,  but  this  fact  did  not  in  the  smallest 
degree  lessen  the  quaint  self-assurance  of  his 
demeanour. 

"Yes,  but  you  mustn't  cry  about  it,"  he  said 
gently.  "And  you  mustn't  blame  yourself  either. 
I  knew  the  fellow,  remember;  you  didn't." 

"I  didn't  know  you,  either,"  she  said,  sitting 
down  on  the  edge  of  the  fountain.  "I — I've  been 
a  perfect  fool!" 

Silence  followed  this  statement.  She  did  not 
know  quite  whether  she  expected  Lord  Ronald  to 


The  Nonentity  159 

agree  with  her  or  to  protest  against  the  severity 
of  her  self -arraignment,  but  she  found  his  silence 
peculiarly  hard  to  bear. 

She  had  almost  begun  to  resent  it,  when  sud- 
denly, very  softly,  he  spoke : 

"It's  never  too  late  to  mend,  is  it?" 

"I  don't  know,"  she  answered.  "I  almost 
think  it  is — at  my  age." 

He  dipped  her  handkerchief  again  in  the  foun- 
tain, and  dabbed  his  face  afresh.  Then: 

"  Don't  you  think  you  might  try?  "  he  suggested, 
in  his  speculative  drawl. 

She  shook  her  head  rather  drearily. 

"  I  suppose  I  shall  have  to  resign  myself,  and  get 
a  companion.  I  shall  hate  it,  and  so  will  the  com- 
panion, but ' ' 

"Think  so?"  said  Lord  Ronald.  He  laid  his 
hand  quietly  on  her  knee.  "Mrs.  Denvers,"  he 
said,  "I  am  afraid  you  thought  me  awfully  im- 
pertinent when  I  suggested  your  marrying  me  the 
other  day.  It  wasn't  very  ingenious  of  me,  I 
admit.  But  what  can  you  expect  from  a  nonen- 
tity? Not  brains,  surely!  I  am  not  going  to 
repeat  the  blunder.  I  know  very  well  that  I  am 
no  bigger  than  a  peppercorn  in  your  estimation, 
and  we  will  leave  it  at  that.  But,  you  know,  you 
are  too  young,  you  really  are  too  young,  to  live 
alone.  Now  listen  a  moment.  You  trust  me. 
You  said  so.  You'll  stick  to  that  ?" 

"Of  course,"  she  said,  wondering  greatly  what 
was  coming. 


160  The  Swindler 

"Then  will  you,"  he  proceeded  very  quietly, 
"have  me  for  a  watch-dog  until  you  marry  again? 
I  could  make  you  an  excellent  Sikh  servant,  and  I 
could  go  with  you  practically  everywhere.  Don't 
begin  to  laugh  at  the  suggestion  until  you  have 
thoroughly  considered  it.  It  could  be  done  in 
such  a  way  that  no  one  would  suspect.  It  matters 
nothing  to  any  one  how  I  pass  my  time,  and  I  may 
as  well  do  something  useful  for  once.-  I  know  at 
first  sight  it  seems  impossible,  but  it  is  nothing  of 
the  sort  in  reality.  It  isn't  the  first  time  I  have 
faked  as  a  native.  I  am  Indian  born,  and  I  have 
spent  the  greater  part  of  my  life  knocking  about 
the  Empire.  The  snake-taming  business  I  picked 
up  from  an  old  bearer  of  mine — a  very  old  man  he's 
now  and  in  the  trade  himself.  I  got  him  to  lend  me 
his  most  docile  cobra.  The  thing  was  harmless,  of 
course.  But  all  this  is  beside  the  point.  The 
point  is,  will  you  put  up  with  me  as  a  retainer,  no 
more,  until  you  find  some  one  more  worthy  of  the 
high  honour  of  guarding  you?  I  shall  never, 
believe  me,  take  advantage  of  your  kindness. 
And  on  the  day  you  marry  again  I  shall  resign  my 
post." 

She  had  listened  to  the  amazing  suggestion  in 
unbroken  silence,  and  even  when  he  paused  she  did 
not  at  once  speak.  Her  head  was  bent,  almost  as 
though  she  did  not  wish  him  to  see  her  face — he, 
the  peppercorn,  the  nonentity,  whose  opinion 
mattered  so  little! 

Yet  as  he  waited,  still  with  that  quiet  hand  upon 


The  Nonentity  161 

her  as  though  to  assure  her  of  his  solidity,  his 
trustworthiness,  she  spoke  at  last,  in  a  voice  so 
small  that  it  sounded  almost  humble. 

"But,  Lord  Ronald,  I — I  may  never  marry 
again.  My  late  marriage  was — was  such  a 
grievous  mistake.  I  was  so  young  at  the  time, 
and — and ' ' 

"Don't  tell  me,"  he  said  gently. 

"But — but — if  I  never  marry  again?"  she 
persisted. 

"Then — unless,  of  course,  you  dismiss  me — I 
shall  be  with  you  for  all  time,"  he  said. 

She  made  a  slight,  involuntary  movement,  and 
he  took  his  hand  away. 

"Will  you  think  it  over  before  you  decide?"  he 
said.  "  I  will  come  to  you,  as  soon  as  I  am  present- 
able, for  your  answer.  For  the  present,  would  you 
not  be  wise  to  go  back  to  your  friends?  I  am  too 
disreputable  to  escort  you,  but  I  will  watch  you  to 
the  palace  steps." 

He  got  to  his  feet  as  he  spoke.  He  was  still 
absently  mopping  his  face  with  the  scrap  of  lace 
he  had  taken  from  her. 

Beryl  stood  up  also.  She  wanted  to  be  gracious 
to  him,  but  she  was  unaccountably  shy.  No  words 
would  come. 

He  waited  courteously. 

At  last: 

"Lord  Ronald,"  she  said  with  difficulty,  "I 
know  you  are  in  earnest.  But  do  you — do  you 
really  wish  to  be  taken  at  your  word?" 


162  The  Swindler 

He  raised  his  eyebrows  as  if  the  question  slightly 
surprised  him. 

"Certainly,"  he  said. 

Still  she  stood  hesitating. 

"I  wish  you  would  tell  me  why,"  she  said, 
almost  under  her  breath. 

"Why?"  he  repeated  uncomprehendingly. 

"Yes,  why  you  wish  to  safeguard  me  in  this 
fashion, "  she  explained,  in  evident  embarrassment. 

"Oh,  that!"  he  said  slowly.  "I  suppose  it  is 
because  I  happen  to  care  for  your  safety." 

"Yes?"  she  murmured,  still  pausing. 

He  looked  at  her  with  his  straight  grey  eyes  that 
were  so  perfectly  true  and  kind. 

"That's  all,"  he  said,  and  smiled  upon  her 
reassuringly. 

Beryl  uttered  a  sharp  sigh  and  let  the  matter 
drop.  Nonentity  though  he  might  be,  she  would 
have  given  much  for  a  glimpse  of  his  inner  soul 
just  then. 

X 

For  three  days  after  the  reception  at  Farabad 
Beryl  Denvers  returned  to  her  seclusion,  and 
during  those  three  days  she  devoted  the  whole  of 
her  attention  to  the  plan  that  Lord  Ronald  Prior 
had  laid  before  her.  It  worried  her  a  good  deal. 
There  were  so  many  obstacles  to  its  satisfactory 
fulfilment.  She  wished  he  had  not  been  so 
pleasantly  vague  regarding  his  own  feelings  in  the 
matter.  Of  course,  it  was  a  feather-brained 


The  Nonentity  163 

scheme  from  start  to  finish,  and  yet  in  a  fashion 
it  attracted  her.  He  was  so  splendidly  safe,  so 
absolutely  reliable;  she  needed  just  such  a  pro- 
tector. And  yet — and  yet — there  were  so  many 
obstacles. 

On  the  fourth  day  Lord  Ronald's  card  was 
brought  to  her.  He  did  not  call  at  the  conven- 
tional hour,  and  the  reason  for  this  was  not  hard  to 
fathom.  He  had  come  for  her  final  decision,  and 
he  desired  to  see  her  alone. 

She  did  not  know  how  to  meet  him  or  what  to 
say,  but  it  was  useless  to  shirk  the  interview. 
She  entered  her  drawing-room  with  decidedly 
heightened  colour,  even  while  telling  herself  that 
it  was  absurd  to  feel  any  embarrassment  in  his 
presence. 

He  was  waiting  for  her  on  his  favourite  perch, 
the  music-stool,  swinging  idly  to  and  fro,  with  his 
customary  serenity  of  demeanour.  He  moved  to 
meet  her  with  a  quiet  smile  of  welcome.  A  piece  of 
strapping-plaster  across  his  left  temple  was  all  that 
remained  of  his  recent  disfigurement. 

"  I  hope  my  visit  is  not  premature, "  he  remarked 
as  he  shook  hands. 

"Oh,  no!"  she  answered  somewhat  nervously. 
"I  expected  you.  Please  sit  down." 

He  subsided  again  upon  the  music-stool,  and 
there  followed  a  silence  which  she  found  peculiarly 
disconcerting. 

"You  have  been  thinking  over  my  suggestion?'* 
he  drawled  at  length. 


164  The  Swindler 

"Yes, "  she  said.  "  Yes,  I  have."  She  paused  a 
moment,  then,  "I — am  afraid  it  wouldn't  answer," 
she  said,  with  an  effort,  "though  I  am  very  grate- 
ful to  you  for  thinking  of  it.  You  see,  there  are  so 
many  obstacles." 

"But  not  insurmountable,  any  of  them, "  smiled 
Lord  Ronald. 

"I  am  afraid  so,"  she  said. 

He  looked  at  her. 

"May  I  not  hear  what  they  are?" 

She  hesitated. 

"For  one  thing,  you  know, "  she  said,  "one  pays 
one's  servants." 

"Well,  but  you  can  pay  me,"  he  said  simply. 
"I  shall  not  ask  very  high  wages.  I  am  easily 
satisfied.  I  shouldn't  call  that  an  obstacle." 

She  laughed  a  little. 

"But  that  isn't  all.  There  is  the  danger  of 
being  found  out.  It — it  would  make  it  rather 
awkward,  wouldn't  it?  People  would  talk." 

"No  one  ever  talks  scandal  of  me,"  said  Lord 
Ronald  comfortably.  "I  am  considered  eccentric, 
but  quite  incapable  of  anything  serious.  I  don't 
think  you  need  be  afraid.  There  really  isn't  the 
smallest  danger  of  my  being  discovered,  and  even 
if  I  were,  I  could  tell  the  truth,  you  know.  People 
always  believe  what  I  say." 

She  smiled  involuntarily  at  his  simplicity,  but 
she  shook  her  head. 

"It  really  wouldn't  do,"  she  said. 

' '  What !     More  obstacles  ? '' '  he  asked. 


The  Nonentity  165 

"Yes,  one — the  greatest  of  all,  in  my  opinion." 
She  got  up  and  moved  across  the  room,  he  pivoting 
slowly  round  to  watch  her. 

She  came  to  a  stand  by  her  writing-table,  and 
began  to  turn  over  a  packet  of  letters  that  lay 
there.  She  did  it  mechanically,  with  hands  that 
shook  a  little.  Her  face  was  turned  away  from  him. 

He  waited  for  a  few  seconds;  then,  as  she  still 
remained  silent,  he  spoke. 

"What  is  this  last  obstacle,  Mrs.  Denvers?" 

She  answered  him  with  her  head  bent,  her 
fingers  still  fluttering  the  papers  before  her. 

"You,"  she  said,  in  a  low  voice.  "You  your- 
self." 

"Me!"  said  Lord  Ronald,  in  evident  astonish- 
ment. 

She  nodded  without  speaking. 

"But — I'm  sorry,"  he  said  pathetically,  "I'm 
afraid  I  don't  quite  follow  you.  I  am  not  famed 
for  my  wits,  as  you  know." 

She  laughed  at  that,  unexpectedly  and  quite 
involuntarily ;  and  though  she  was  instantly  serious 
again  the  laugh  served  to  clear  away  some  of  her 
embarrassment . 

"Oh,  but  you  are  absurd,"  she  said,  "to  talk  like 
that.  No  dull-witted  person  could  ever  have  done 
/hat  you  have  been  doing  lately.  Major  Fletcher 
himself  told  me  that  day  we  went  to  Farabad  that 
it  needed  sharp  wits  to  pose  as  a  native  among 
natives.  He  also  said —  She  paused  suddenly. 

"Yes?"  said  Lord  Ronald. 


166  The  Swindler 

She  glanced  round  at  him  momentarily. 

"I  don't  know  why  I  should  repeat  it.  It  is 
quite  beside  the  point.  He  also  said  that  it  en- 
tailed a  risk  that  no  one  would  care  to  take  unless 
— unless  there  was  something  substantial  to  be 
gained  by  it." 

"Well,  but  there  was,"  said  Lord  Ronald 
vaguely. 

"Meaning  my  safety?"  she  questioned. 

"Exactly,"  he  said. 

She  became  silent;  but  she  fidgeted  no  longer 
with  her  papers.  She  was  making  up  her  mind  to 
take  a  bold  step. 

"Lord  Ronald, "  she  said  at  last,  " I  am  going  to 
ask  you  a  very  direct — a  horribly  direct — question. 
Will  you  answer  me  quite  directly  too?  And — 
and — tell  me  the  truth,  even  if  it  sounds  rather 
brutal?" 

There  was  an  unmistakable  appeal  in  her  voice. 
With  an  effort  she  wheeled  in  her  chair,  and  fully 
faced  him.  But  she  was  so  plainly  distressed  that 
even  he  could  not  fail  to  notice  it. 

"What  is  it?"  he  said  kindly.  "I  will  tell  you 
the  truth,  of  course.  I  always  do." 

"You  promise?"  she  said,  very  earnestly. 

"Certainly  I  promise,"  he  said. 

"Then — you  must  forgive  my  asking,  but  I 
must  know,  and  I  can't  find  out  in  any  other  way 
— Lord  Ronald,  are  you — are  you  in  love  with  me?" 

She  saw  the  grey  eyes  widen  in  astonishment, 
and  was  conscious  of  a  moment  of  overwhelming 


The  Nonentity  167 

embarrassment ;  and  then,  slow  and  emphatic,  his 
answer  came,  banishing  all  misgiving. 

"But  of  course  I  am, "  he  said.  "I  thought  you 
knew." 

She  summoned  to  her  aid  an  indignation  she  was 
far  from  feeling;  she  had  to  cloak  her  confusion 
somehow.  "How  could  I  possibly  know?"  she 
said.  "You  never  told  me." 

"I  asked  you  to  marry  me,"  he  protested.  "I 
thought  you  would  take  the  other  thing  for 
granted." 

She  stood  up  abruptly,  turning  from  him.  It 
was  impossible  to  keep  up  her  indignation.  It 
simply  declined  to  carry  her  through. 

"You — you  are  a  perfect  idiot!"  she  said 
shakily.  And  on  the  words  she  tried  to  laugh,  but 
only  succeeded  in  partially  smothering  a  sob. 

"Oh,  I  say!"  said  Lord  Ronald.  He  got  up 
awkwardly,  and  stood  behind  her.  "Please  don't 
take  it  to  heart,"  he  urged.  "I  shouldn't  have 
told  you,  -only — you  know — you  asked.  And  it 
wouldn't  make  any  difference,  on  my  honour  it 
wouldn't.  Won't  you  take  my  word  for  it,  and 
give  me  a  trial?" 

"No,  "she  said. 

"Why  not?"  he  persisted.  "Don't  you  think 
you  are  rather  hard  on  me?  I  shall  never  take  a 
single  inch  more  than  you  care  to  allow." 

She  turned  upon  him  suddenly.  Her  cheeks 
were  burning  and  her  eyes  were  wet,  but  she  no 
longer  cared  about  his  seeing  these  details. 


168  The  Swindler 

"What  did  you  mean?"  she  demanded  unex- 
pectedly, "by  saying  to  me  that  those  fight  hardest 
who  fight  in  vain?" 

He  was  not  in  the  least  disconcerted. 

"I  meant  that  though  you  might  send  me  about 
my  business  you  would  not  quite  manage  to  shake 
me  off  altogether." 

"Meaning  that  you  would  refuse  to  go?"  she 
asked,  with  a  quiver  that  might  have  been  anger  in 
her  voice. 

"Meaning, "  he  responded  quietly,  "that  though 
you  might  deny  me  yourself,  it  might  not  be  in 
your  power  to  deny  me  the  pleasure  of  serving 
you." 

"And  is  it  not  in  my  power?"  she  asked  swiftly. 

He  was  looking  at  her  very  intently. 

"No, "  he  said  in  his  most  deliberate  drawl.  "I 
don't  think  it  is." 

"But  it  is,"  she  asserted,  meeting  his  look  with 
blazing  eyes.  "You  cannot  possibly  enter  my 
service  without  my  consent.  And — and — I  am 
not  going  to  consent  to  that  mad  scheme  of  yours." 

"No?  "he  said. 

"No,"  she  repeated  with  emphasis.  "You 
yourself  are  the  obstacle,  as  I  said  before.  If — if 
you  had  not  been  in  love  with  me,  I  might  have 
considered  it.  But — now — it  is  out  of  the  ques- 
tion. Moreover,"  her  eyes  shot  suddenly  down- 
wards, as  though  to  hide  their  fire,  "I  shall  not 
want  that  sort  of  protector  now." 

"  No?  "  he  said  again,  very  softly  this  time.     He 


The  Nonentity  169 

was  standing  straight  before  her,  still  closely 
watching  her  with  that  in  his  eyes  that  he  had 
never  permitted  there  before. 

"No!"  she  repeated  once  more,  and  again 
brokenly  she  laughed;  then  suddenly  raised  her 
eyes  to  his,  and  gave  him  both  her  hands  impetu- 
ously, confidingly,  yet  with  a  certain  shyness  not- 
withstanding. "I — I  am  going  to  marry  again 
after  all, "  she  said,  "if — if  you  will  have  me." 

"My  dear,"  said  Lord  Ronald,  very  tenderly, 
"I  always  meant  to!" 


Her  Hero 


THE  AMERICAN  COUSIN 

"  |V /I  Y  dear  child,  it's  absurd  to  be  romantic  over 
+  »  *  such  a  serious  matter  as  marriage — the 
greatest  mistake,  I  assure  you.  Nothing  could  be 
more  suitable  than  an  alliance  with  this  very 
eligible  young  man.  He  plainly  thinks  so  himself. 
If  you  are  so  unreasonable  as  to  throw  away  this 
magnificent  chance,  I  shall  really  feel  inclined  to 
give  you  up  in  despair." 

The  soft,  drawling  accents  fell  with  a  gentle  sigh 
through  the  perfumed  silence  of  the  speaker's 
boudoir.  She  was  an  elderly  woman,  beautiful, 
with  that  delicate,  china-like  beauty  that  never 
fades  from  youth  to  age.  Not  even  Lady  Raffold's 
enemies  had  ever  disputed  the  fact  of  her  beauty, 
not  even  her  stepdaughter,  firmly  though  she 
despised  her. 

She  sat  behind  the  tea-table,  this  stepdaughter, 
dark  and  inscrutable,  a  grave,  unresponsive 
listener.  Her  grey  eyes  never  varied  as  Lady 

170 


Her  Hero  171 

Raffold's  protest  came  lispingly  through  the  quiet 
room.  She  might  have  been  turning  over  some 
altogether  irrelevant  problem  at  the  back  of  her 
mind.  It  was  this  girl's  way  to  hide  herself 
behind  a  shield  of  apparent  preoccupation  when 
anything  jarred  upon  her. 

"  I  need  scarcely  tell  you  what  it  would  mean  to 
your  father,"  went  on  the  soft  voice.  "Ever 
since  poor  Mortimer's  death  it  has  fretted  him 
terribly  to  think  that  the  estates  must  pass  out  of 
the  direct  line.  Indeed,  he  hardly  feels  that  the 
present  heir  belongs  to  the  family  at  all.  The 
American  branch  has  always  seemed  so  remote. 
But  now  that  the  young  man  is  actually  coming 
over  to  see  his  inheritance,  it  does  seem  such  a 
Heaven-sent  chance  for  you.  You  know,  dear,  it's 
your  sixth  season.  You  really  ought  to  think 
seriously  of  getting  settled.  I  am  sure  it  would 
be  a  great  weight  off  my  mind  to  see  you  suitably 
married.  And  this  young  Cochrane  is  sure  to  take 
a  reasonable  view  of  the  matter.  Americans  are 
so  admirably  practical.  And,  of  course,  if  your 
father  could  leave  all  his  money  to  the  estates,  as 
this  marriage  would  enable  him  to  do,  it  would  be 
a  very  excellent  arrangement  for  all  concerned." 

The  girl  at  the  tea-table  made  a  slight — a  very 
slight — movement  that  scarcely  amounted  to  a 
gesture  of  impatience.  The  gentle  drone  of  her 
stepmother's  voice  was  becoming  monotonous. 
But  she  said  nothing  whatever,  and  her  expression 
did  not  change. 


172  The  Swindler 

A  faintly  fretful  note  crept  into  Lady  Raffold's 
tone  when  she  spoke  again. 

"You're  so  unreasonable,  Priscilla.  I  really 
haven't  a  notion  what  you  actually  want.  You 
might  have  been  a  duchess  by  this  time,  as  all  the 
world  knows,  if  you  had  only  been  reasonable. 
How  is  it — why  is  it — that  you  are  so  hard  to 
please?" 

Lady  Priscilla  raised  her  eyelids  momentarily. 

"I  don't  think  you  would  understand,  Char- 
lotte, if  I  were  to  tell  you, "  she  said,  in  a  voice  of 
such  deep  music  that  it  seemed  incapable  of 
bitterness. 

"Some  ridiculous  sentimentality,  no  doubt," 
said  Lady  Raffold. 

"I  am  sure  you  would  call  it  so." 

A  faint  flush  rose  in  the  girl's  dark  face.  She 
looked  at  her  stepmother  no  longer,  but  began 
very  quietly  and  steadily  to  make  the  tea. 

Lady  Raffold  waited  a  few  seconds  for  her  con- 
fidence, but  she  waited  in  vain.  Lady  Priscilla 
had  retired  completely  behind  her  shield,  and  it 
was  quite  obvious  that  she  had  no  intention  of 
exposing  herself  any  further  to  stray  shots. 

Her  stepmother  was  exasperated,  but  she  found 
it  difficult  to  say  anything  more  upon  the  subject 
in  face  of  this  impenetrability.  She  could  only 
solace  herself  with  the  reflection  that  the  American 
cousin,  who  had  become  heir  to  the  earldom  and 
estates  of  Raffold,  would  almost  certainly  take  a 
more  common-sense  view  of  the  matter,  and,  if 


Her  Hero  173 

that  were  so,  a  little  pressure  from  the  girl's  father, 
whom  she  idolised,  would  probably  be  sufficient 
to  settle  it  according  to  her  desires. 

It  was  so  plainly  Priscilla's  duty  to  marry  the 
young  man.  The  whole  thing  seemed  to  be 
planned  and  cut  out  by  Providence.  And  it  was 
but  natural  that  Ralph  Cochrane  should  see  it  in 
the  same  light.  For  it  was  understood  that  he 
was  not  rich,  and  it  would  be  greatly  to  his  interest 
to  marry  Earl  Raffold's  only  surviving  child. 

So  Lady  Raffold  reasoned  to  herself  as  Priscilla 
poured  out  the  tea  in  serious  silence,  and  she 
gradually  soothed  her  own  annoyance  by  the 
process. 

"Come,"  she  said  at  length,  breaking  a  long 
silence,  "I  should  think  Ralph  Cochrane  will  be  in 
England  in  ten  days  at  the  latest.  We  must  not 
be  too  formal  with  him  as  he  is  a  relation.  Shall 
we  ask  him  to  luncheon  on  the  Sunday  after  next?" 

Priscilla  did  not  at  once  reply.  When  at  length 
she  looked  up,  it  was  with  the  air  of  one  coming  out 
of  a  reverie. 

"  Oh,  yes,  if  you  like,  Charlotte, "  she  said,  in  her 
deep,  quiet  voice.  "No  doubt  he  will  amuse  you. 
I  know  you  always  enjoy  Americans." 

"And  you,  my  dear?"  said  Lady  Raffold,  with 
just  a  hint  of  sharpness  in  her  tone. 

"I?"  Again  her  stepdaughter  paused  a  little, 
as  if  collecting  her  thoughts.  "I  shall  not  be 
here,"  she  said  finally.  "I  have  decided  to  go 
down  to  Raffold  for  midsummer  week,  and  I  don't 


174  The  Swindler 

suppose  I  shall  hurry  back.  It  won't  matter,  will 
it?  I  often  think  that  you  entertain  best  alone. 
And  I  am  so  tired  of  London  heat  and  dust." 

There  was  an  unconscious  note  of  wistfulness  in 
the  beautiful  voice,  but  its  dominant  virtue  was 
determination. 

Lady  Raffold  realised  at  once  to  her  unspeakable 
indignation  that  protest  was  useless. 

"Really,  Priscilla, "  was  all  she  found  to  say,  "I 
am  amazed — yes,  amazed — at  your  total  lack  of 
consideration." 

But  Priscilla  was  quite  unimpressed. 

"You  won't  have  time  to  miss  me,"  she  said. 
"  I  don't  think  any  one  will,  except,  perhaps,  Dad; 
and  he  always  knows  where  to  find  me." 

"Your  father  will  certainly  not  leave  town  before 
the  end  of  the  season,"  said  Lady  Raffold,  raising 
her  voice  slightly. 

"Poor  dear  Dad!"  murmured  Priscilla. 

II 

THE  ROMANCE  OF  HER  LIFE 

"And  so  I  escaped.  Her  ladyship  didn't  like  it, 
but  it  was  worth  a  tussle." 

Priscilla  leaned  back  luxuriously  in  the  house- 
keeper's room  at  Raffold  Abbey,  and  laughed  upon 
a  deep  note  of  satisfaction.  She  had  discarded  all 
things  fashionable  with  her  departure  from  London 
in  the  height  of  the  season.  The  crumpled  linen 


Her  Hero  175 

hat  she  wore  was  designed  for  comfort  and  not  for 
elegance.  Her  gown  of  brown  holland  was  sim- 
plicity itself.  She  sat  carelessly  with  her  arm 
round  the  neck  of  an  immense  mastiff  who  had 
followed  her  in. 

"I've  cut  everything,  Froggy,"  she  declared, 
"including  the  terrible  American  cousin.  In  fact, 
it  was  almost  more  on  his  account  than  any  other 
that  I  did  it.  For  I  can't  and  won't  marry  him, 
not  even  for  the  sake  of  the  dear  old  Abbey!  Are 
you  very  shocked,  I  wonder?" 

Froggy  the  housekeeper — so  named  by  young 
Lord  Mortimer  in  his  schoolboy  days — looked  up 
from  her  work  and  across  at  Priscilla,  her  brown, 
prominent  eyes,  to  which  she  owed  her  sobriquet, 
shining  lovingly  behind  her  spectacles.  Her  real 
name  was  Mrs.  Burrowes,  but  Priscilla  could  not 
remember  a  time  when  she  had  ever  called  her  any- 
thing but  Froggy.  The  old  familiar  name  had 
become  doubly  dear  to  both  of  them  now  that 
Mortimer  was  dead. 

"  I  should  be  very  shocked,  indeed,  darling,  if  it 
were  otherwise,"  was  Froggy 's  answer. 

And  Priscilla  breathed  a  long  sigh  of  content- 
ment. She  knew  that  there  was  no  need  to  ex- 
plain herself  to  this,  her  oldest  friend. 

She  laid  her  cheek  comfortably  against  the  great 
dog 's  ear. 

"No,  Romeo,"  she  murmured.  "Your  missis 
isn't  going  to  be  thrown  at  any  man's  head  if  she 
knows  it.  But  it's  a  difficult  world,  old  boy; 


176  The  Swindler 

almost  an  impossible  world,  I  sometimes  think. 
Froggy,  I  know  you  can  be  sentimental  when  you 
try.  What  should  you  do  if  you  fell  in  love  with  a 
total  stranger  without  ever  knowing  his  name? 
Should  you  have  the  fidelity  to  live  in  single  blessed- 
ness all  your  life  for  the  sake  of  your  hero?  ' 

Froggy  looked  a  little  startled  at  the  question, 
lightly  as  it  was  put.  She  felt  that  it  was  scarcely 
a  problem  that  could  be  settled  offhand.  And  yet 
something  in  Priscilla's  manner  seemed  to  indicate 
that  she  wanted  a  prompt  reply. 

"It  is  a  little  difficult  to  say,  dear,"  she  said, 
after  brief  reflection.  "I  can  understand  that  one 
might  be  strongly  attracted  towards  a  stranger,  but 
I  should  think  it  scarcely  possible  that  one  could 
go  so  far  as  to  fall  in  love." 

Priscilla  uttered  a  faint,  rueful  laugh. 

"Perhaps  you  couldn't,  Froggy,"  she  admitted. 
"But  you  know  there  is  such  a  thing  as  loving  at 
first  sight.  Some  people  go  so  far  as  to  say  the  all 
true  love  begins  that  way." 

She  rose  quietly  and  went  to  her  friend's  side. 

"Oh,  Froggy,  it's  very  difficult  to  be  true  to 
your  inner  self  when  you  stand  quite  alone, "  she 
said,  "and  every  one  else  is  thinking  what  a  fool 
you  are!"  The  words  had  an  unwonted  ring  of 
passion  in  them,  and,  having  uttered  them,  she 
knelt  down  by  Froggy's  side,  and  hid  her  face 
against  the  ample  shoulder.  "And  I  sometimes 
think  I'm  a  fool  myself, "  she  ended,  in  muffled 
accents. 


Her  Hero  177 

Froggy's  arms  closed  instantly  and  protectingly 
around  her. 

"My  darling,  who  is  it,  then?"  whispered  her 
motherly  voice. 

Priscilla  did  not  at  once  reply.  It  was  a  difficult 
confidence  to  make.  At  last,  haltingly,  words 
came: 

"It  was  years  ago — that  summer  we  went  to 
New  York,  Dad  and  I.  He  was  from  the  South, 
so  I  heard  afterwards.  He  stayed  at  the  same 
hotel  with  us,  one  of  those  quiet,  unobtrusive,  big 
men — not  big  physically,  but — you  understand. 
I  might  not  have  noticed  him — I  don't  know — but 
one  day  a  man  in  the  street  threw  down  a  flaming 
match  just  as  I  was  coming  out  of  the  hotel.  I 
had  on  a  muslin  dress,  and  it  caught  fire.  Of 
course,  it  blazed  in  a  moment,  and  I  was  terrified. 
Dad  wasn't  there.  But  the  man  was  in  the 
balcony  just  overhead,  and  he  swung  himself  down, 
I  never  saw  how,  and  caught  me  in  his  arms.  He 
had  nothing  to  put  it  out  with.  He  simply  threw 
me  down  and  flung  himself  on  the  top,  beating 
out  the  flames  in  all  directions  with  his  hands.  I 
was  dreadfully  upset,  of  course,  but  I  wasn't  much 
hurt.  He  was — horribly.  One  of  his  hands  was 
all  charred. 

"He  carried  me  back  into  the  hotel  and  told  me 
not  to  be  frightened.  And  he  stayed  with  me  till  I 
felt  better,  because  somehow  I  wanted  him  to. 
He  was  so  strong,  Froggy,  and  so  kind.  He  had  a 
voice  like  a  woman 's.  I  Ve  thought  since  that  he 


178  The  Swindler 

must  have  thought  me  very  foolish  and  uncon- 
trolled. But  he  seemed  to  understand  just  how  I 
felt.  And — do  you  know — I  never  saw  him  again ! 
He  went  right  away  that  very  afternoon,  and  we 
never  found  out  who  he  was.  And  I  never  thanked 
him  even  for  saving  my  life.  I  don't  think  he 
wanted  to  be  thanked. 

"But  I  have  never  forgotten  him.  He  was  the 
sort  of  man  you  never  could  forget.  I've  never 
seen  any  one  in  the  least  like  him.  He  was  some- 
how so  much  greater  than  all  the  other  men  I 
know.  Am  I  a  fool,  Froggy?  I  suppose  I  am. 
They  say  every  woman  will  meet  her  mate  if  she 
waits  long  enough,  but  it  can't  be  true.  I  suppose 
I  might  as  well  marry  the  Yankee  heir,  only  I 
can't— I  can't!" 

The  low  voice  ceased,  and  there  fell  a  silence. 
Froggy's  arms  were  foldea  very  closely  about  the 
kneeling  girl,  buf  she  had  no  words  of  comfort  or 
counsel  to  offer.  She  was,  in  fact,  out  of  her  depth, 
though  not  for  worlds  would  she  have  had  Priscilla 
know  it. 

"You  must  just  follow  your  own  heart,  dearest," 
she  said  at  last.  "And  I  think  you  will  find  happi- 
ness some  day.  God  grant  it!" 

Priscilla  lifted  her  head  and  kissed  her.  She 
knew  quite  well  that  she  had  led  whither  Froggy 
could  not  follow.  But  the  knowledge  did  not  hurt 
her. 

She  called  Romeo,  and  went  out  into  the  sum- 
mer sunshine,  with  a  smile  half  tender  and  half 


Her  Hero  179 

humorous  at  the  corners  of   her  mouth.      Poor 
Froggy! 

Ill 

THE  PICNIC  IN  THE  GLEN 

"I  think  we  will  go  for  a  picnic,  Romeo,"  said 
Priscilla. 

It  was  a  Saturday  afternoon,  warm  and  slum- 
brous, and  Saturday  was  the  day  on  which  Raffold 
Abbey  was  open  to  the  public  when  the  family 
were  away.  Priscilla's  presence  was,  as  it  were, 
unofficial,  but  though  she  was  quite  content  to 
have  it  so,  she  was  determined  to  escape  from 
sight  and  hearing  of  the  hot  and  dusty  crowd  that 
thronged  the  place  on  a  fine  day  from  three  o'clock 
till  six. 

Half  a  mile  or  more  from  the  Abbey,  a  brown 
stream  ran  gurgling  through  a  miniature  glen,  to 
join  the  river  below  the  park  gates.  This  stream 
had  been  Priscilla's  great  delight  for  longer  than 
she  could  remember.  As  children,  she  and  her 
brother  Mortimer  had  spent  hours  upon  its  mossy 
banks,  and  since  those  days  she  had  dreamed  many 
dreams,  aye,  and  shed  many  tears,  within  sound  of 
its  rushing  waters.  She  loved  the  place.  It  was 
her  haven  of  solitude.  No  one  ever  disturbed 
her  there. 

The  walk  across  the  park  made  them  both  hot, 
and  it  was  a  relief  to  sit  down  on  her  favourite  tree- 
root  above  the  stream  and  yield  herself  to  the 


i8o  The  Swindler 

luxury  of  summer  idleness.  A  robin  was  chirping 
far  overhead,  and  from  the  grass  at  her  feet  there 
came  the  whir  of  a  grasshopper.  Otherwise,  save 
for  the  music  of  the  stream,  all  was  still.  An 
exquisite,  filmy  drowsiness  crept  over  her,  and  she 
slept. 

A  deep  growl  from  her  bodyguard  roused  her 
nearly  an  hour  later,  and  she  awoke  with  a  start. 

Romeo  was  sitting  very  upright,  watching  some- 
thing on  the  farther  side  of  the  stream.  He 
growled  again  as  Priscilla  sat  up. 

She  looked  across  in  the  same  direction,  and  laid 
a  hasty  hand  upon  his  collar. 

What  she  saw  surprised  her  considerably.  A 
man  was  lying  face  downwards  on  the  brink  of  the 
stream,  fishing  about  in  the  water,  with  one  arm 
bared  to  the  shoulder.  He  must  have  heard 
Romeo's  warning  growl,  but  he  paid  not  the 
slightest  attention  to  it.  Priscilla  watched  him 
with  keen  interest.  She  could  not  see  his  face. 

Suddenly  he  clutched  at  something  in  the  clear 
water,  and  immediately  straightened  himself,  with- 
drawing his  arm.  Then,  quite  calmly,  he  looked 
across  at  her,  and  spoke  in  a  peculiar,  soft  drawl 
like  a  woman's. 

"You'll  forgive  me  for  disturbing  you,  I  know," 
he  said,  "when  I  tell  you  that  all  my  worldly  goods 
were  at  the  bottom  of  this  ditch." 

He  displayed  his  recovered  property  as  if  to 
verify  his  words — a  brown  leather  pocketbook 
with  a  silver  clasp.  Priscilla  gazed  from  it  to  its 


Her  Hero  181 

owner  in  startled  silence.  Her  heart  was  beating 
almost  to  suffocation.  She  knew  this  man. 

The  water  babbled  on  between  them,  singing  a 
little  tinkling  song  all  its  own.  But  the  girl 
neither  saw  nor  heard  aught  of  her  surroundings. 
She  was  back  in  the  heat  and  whirl  of  a  crowded 
New  York  thoroughfare,  back  in  the  fierce  grip  of 
this  man 's  arms,  hearing  his  quiet  voice  above  her 
head,  bidding  her  not  to  be  frightened. 

Gradually  the  vision  passed.  The  wild  tumult 
at  her  heart  died  down.  She  became  aware  that  he 
was  waiting  for  her  to  speak,  and  she  did  so  as  one 
in  a  dream. 

"  I  am  glad  you  got  it  back, "  she  said. 

His  brown,  clean-shaven  face  smiled  at  her,  but 
there  was  no  hint  of  recognition  in  his  eyes.  He 
had  totally  forgotten  her,  of  course,  as  she  had 
always  told  herself  he  would.  Did  not  men  always 
forget?  And  yet — and  yet — was  he  not  still  her 
hero — the  man  for  whose  sake  all  other  men  were 
less  than  naught  to  her? 

Again  Romeo  growled  deeply,  and  she  tightened 
her  hold  upon  him.  The  stranger,  however,  ap- 
peared quite  unimpressed.  He  stood  up  and 
contemplated  the  stream  that  divided  them  with  a 
measuring  eye. 

"Have  I  your  permission  to  come  across?"  he 
asked  her  finally,  in  his  soft  Southern  drawl. 

She  laughed  a  little  nervously.  He  was  not 
without  audacity,  notwithstanding  his  quiet 
manner. 


182  The  Swindler 

"You  can  cross  if  you  like, "  she  said.  "  But  it's 
all  private  property." 

He  paused,  looking  at  her  intently. 

"It  belongs  to  Earl  Raff  old,  I  have  been  told?" 

She  bent  her  head,  and  her  answer  leapt  out 
with  an  ease  that  astonished  her.  She  felt  it  to  be 
an  inspiration. 

"It  does.  But  the  family  are  in  town  for  the 
season.  I  am  staying  with  the  housekeeper.  She 
is  allowed  to  have  her  friends  when  the  family  are 
away." 

It  was  rather  breathlessly  spoken,  but  he  did  not 
seem  to  notice. 

" I  see, "  he  said.  "Then  one  more  or  less  can't 
make  much  difference." 

With  the  words  he  took  a  single  stride  forward 
and  bounded  into  the  air.  He  landed  lightly 
almost  at  her  feet,  and  Romeo  sprang  up  with  an 
outraged  snarl.  It  choked  in  his  throat  almost 
instantly,  however,  for  the  stranger  laid  a  re- 
straining hand  upon  him,  and  spoke  with  sooth- 
ing self-assurance. 

"It's  an  evil  brute  that  kills  a  friend,  eh,  old 
fellow?  You  couldn't  do  it  if  you  tried." 

Romeo's  countenance  changed  magically.  He 
turned  his  hostility  into  an  ardent  welcome,  and 
the  girl  at  his  side  laughed  again  rather  tremu- 
lously. 

"It's  a  good  thing  you  weren't  afraid.  I 
couldn't  have  held  him." 

"I  saw  that,"  said  the  Southerner,  speaking 


Her  Hero  183 

softly,  his  face  on  a  level  with  the  great  head  he 
was  caressing.  "But  I  knew  it  would  be  all  right. 
You  see,  I — kind  of  like  dogs." 

He  turned  to  her  after  a  moment,  a  faintly 
quizzical  expression  about  his  eyes. 

"I  won't  intrude  upon  you,"  he  said.  "I  can 
go  and  trespass  elsewhere,  you  know." 

Priscilla  was  not  as  a  rule  reckless.  A  long 
training  in  her  stepmother's  school  had  made  her 
cautious  and  far-seeing  in  all  things  social.  She 
knew  exactly  the  risk  that  lay  in  unconvention- 
ality.  But,  then,  had  she  not  fled  from  town  to 
lead  a  free  life?  Why  should  she  submit  to  the 
old,  galling  chain  here  in  this  golden  world  where 
its  restraint  was  not  known?  Her  whole  being 
rose  up  in  revolt  at  the  bare  idea,  and  suddenly, 
passionately,  she  decided  to  break  free.  Even 
the  flowers  had  their  day  of  riotous,  splendid  life. 
She  would  have  hers,  wherever  its  enjoyment 
might  lead  her,  whatever  it  might  cost ! 

And  so  she  answered  him  with  a  lack  of  reserve 
at  which  her  London  friends  would  have  marvelled. 

"You  don't  intrude  at  all.  If  you  have  come  to 
see  the  Abbey,  I  should  advise  you  to  wait  till 
after  six  o'clock." 

"When  it  will  be  closed  to  the  public?"  he 
questioned,  still  looking  quizzical. 

She  looked  up  at  him,  for  the  first  time  delib- 
erately meeting  his  eyes.  Yes  it  was  plain  that 
he  did  not  know  her;  but  on  the  whole  she  was 
glad.  It  made  things  easier.  She  had  been  so 


1 84  The  Swindler 

foolish  and  hysterical  upon  that  far-off  day  when 
he  had  saved  her  life. 

"I  will  take  you  over  it  myself,  if  you  care  to 
accept  my  guidance,"  she  said,  "after  the  crowd 
have  gone." 

He  glanced  at  his  watch. 

"And  you  are  prepared  to  tolerate  my  society 
till  six? "  he  said.  "That  is  very  generous  of  you." 

She  smiled,  with  a  touch  of  wistfulness. 

"Perhaps  I  don't  find  my  own  very  inspiring." 

He  raised  his  eyebrows,  but  made  no  comment. 

"Perhaps  I  had  better  tell  you  my  name,"  he 
said,  after  a  pause.  "  I  am  in  a  fashion  connected 
with  this  place — a  sort  of  friend  of  the  family,  if  it 
isn't  presumption  to  put  it  that  way.  My  name  is 
Julian  Carfax,  and  Ralph  Cochrane,  the  next-of- 
kin,  is  a  pal  of  mine,  a  very  great  pal.  He  was 
coming  over  to  England.  Perhaps  you  heard. 
But  he's  a  very  shy  fellow,  and  almost  at  the  last 
moment  he  decided  not  to  face  it  at  present.  I 
was  coming  over,  so  I  undertook  to  explain.  I 
spoke  to  Lady  Raffold  in  town  over  the  telephone, 
and  told  her.  She  seemed  to  be  rather  affronted, 
for  some  reason.  Possibly  it  was  my  fault.  I'm 
not  much  of  a  diplomatist,  anyway." 

He  seated  himself  on  a  mossy  stone  below  her 
with  this  reflection,  and  began  to  cast  pebbles  into 
the  brown  water. 

Priscilla  watched  him  gravely.  What  he  had 
told  her  interested  her  considerably,  but  she  had 
no  intention  of  giving  herself  away  by  betraying  it. 


Her  Hero  185 

There  was  a  decided  pause  before  she  made  up 
her  mind  how  to  pursue  the  subject. 

"I  had  no  idea  that  an  American  could  be  shy, " 
she  said  then. 

Carfax  turned  with  his  pleasant  smile. 

"No?  We're  a  pushing  race,  I  suppose.  But  I 
think  Cochrane  had  some  excuse  for  his  timidity 
this  time." 

"Yes?"  said  Priscilla. 

He  began  to  laugh  quietly. 

"You  see,  it  turned  out  that  he  was  expected  to 
marry  the  old  maid  of  the  family — Lady  Priscilla. 
Naturally  he  kicked  at  that." 

Priscilla  bent  sharply  over  Romeo,  and  began  to 
examine  one  of  his  huge  paws.  Her  face  was  a 
vivid  scarlet. 

"It  wasn't  surprising,  was  it?"  said  Carfax, 
tossing  another  pebble  into  the  stream.  "It  was 
more  than  enough,  in  my  opinion,  to  make  any 
fellow  feel  shy." 

Priscilla  did  not  answer.  The  colour  was  slow 
to  fade  from  her  face. 

"I  wonder  if  you  have  ever  seen  the  lady?" 
Carfax  pursued.  "She  was  out  of  town  when  I 
was  there." 

"Yes;  I  have  seen  her." 

Priscilla  spoke  with  her  head  bent. 

"You  have?    What  is  she  like? " 

He  glanced  round  with  an  expression  of  amused 
interest.  Priscilla  looked  up  deliberately. 

"She  is  quite  old  and  ugly.     But  I  don't  think 


186  The  Swindler 

Mr.  Ralph  Cochrane  need  be  afraid.  She  doesn't 
like  men.  I  am  rather  sorry  for  her  myself." 

"Sorry  for  her?    Why?" 

Carfax  became  serious. 

"I  think  she  is  rather  lonely, "  the  girl  said,  in  a 
low  voice. 

"You  know  her  well?"    ' 

"Can  any  one  say  that  they  really  know  any  one? 
No.  But  I  think  that  she  feels  very  deeply,  and 
that  her  life  has  always  oeen  more  or  less  of  a 
failure.  At  least,  that  is  the  sort  of  feeling  I  have 
about  her." 

Again,  but  more  gradually,  the  colour  rose  in  her 
face.  She  took  up  her  basket,  and  began  to  un- 
pack it. 

Carfax  turned  fully  round. 

"You  go  in  for  character-study,"  he  said. 

"A  little, "  she  owned.  "I  can't  help  it.  Now 
let  me  give  you  some  tea.  I  have  enough  for  two. ' ' 

"I  shall  be  delighted,"  he  said  courteously. 
"Let  me  help  you  to  unpack." 

Priscilla  could  never  recall  afterwards  how  they 
spent  the  golden  hours  till  six  o'clock.  She  was  as 
one  in  a  dream,  to  which  she  clung  closely,  passion- 
ately, fearing  to  awake.  For  in  her  dream  she  was 
standing  on  the  threshold  of  her  paradise,  waiting 
for  the  opening  of  the  gates. 


I87 


ON  THE  THRESHOLD 

Raffold  Abbey  was  huge  and  rambling,  girt  with 
many  memories.  They  spent  nearly  two  hours 
wandering  through  the  house  and  the  old,  crum- 
bling chapel. 

"There  is  a  crypt  below, "  Priscilla  said,  "but  we 
can't  go  down  without  a  lantern.  Another  day,  if 
you  cared " 

"Of  course  I  should,  above  all  things,"  declared 
Carfax.  "I  was  just  going  to  ask  when  I  might 
come  again." 

Their  intimacy  had  progressed  wonderfully 
during  those  hours  of  companionship.  The  total 
absence  of  conventionality  had  destroyed  all 
strangeness  between  them.  They  were  as  children 
on  a  holiday,  enjoying  the  present  to  the  full,  and 
wholly  careless  of  the  future. 

Not  till  Carfax  had  at  length  taken  his  leave  did 
Priscilla  ask  herself  what  had  brought  him  there. 
Merely  to  view  his  friend's  inheritance  seemed  a 
paltry  reason.  Perhaps  he  was  a  journalist,  or  a 
writer  of  guide-books.  But  she  soon  dismissed  the 
matter,  to  ask  herself  a  more  personal  question. 
Was  it  possible  that  he  knew  her?  Had  he  found 
out  her  name  after  the  New  York  episode,  and 
come  at  last  to  seek  her?  She  could  not  honestly 
believe  this,  though  her  heart  leapt  at  the  thought. 
That  affair  had  taken  place  four  long  years  before. 


i88  The  Swindler 

Of  course,  he  had  forgotten  it.  It  could  have 
made  no  more  than  a  passing  impression  upon 
him.  Had  it  been  otherwise,  would  he  not  have 
claimed  her  at  once  as  an  old  acquaintance? 

Yes,  it  was  plain  that  her  first  conviction  must  be 
correct.  He  did  not  know  her.  The  whole  inci- 
dent had  passed  completely  from  his  memory, 
crowded  out,  no  doubt,  and  that  speedily,  by  more 
absorbing  interests.  She  had  flashed  across  his 
life,  attaining  to  no  more  importance  than  a  bird 
upon  the  wing.  He  had  saved  her  life  at  a  fright- 
ful risk,  and  then  forgotten  her  very  existence. 
She  had  always  realised  it  must  be  so,  but, 
strangely,  she  had  never  resented  it.  In  spite  of 
it,  with  a  woman's  queer,  inexplicable  faithfulness, 
she  yet  loved  her  hero,  yet  cherished  closely, 
fondly,  the  memory  that  she  doubted  not  had 
faded  utterly  from  his  mind. 

•  She  went  to  the  village  church  with  Froggy  on 
the  following  day,  though  fully  alive  to  the  risk 
she  ran  of  being  pointed  out  to  the  ignorant  as 
Lady  Priscilla  from  the  Abbey.  She  knew  by 
some  deep-hidden  instinct  that  he  would  be  there, 
and  she  was  not  disappointed.  He  came  in  late, 
and  stood  quite  still  just  inside  the  little  building, 
searching  it  up  and  down  with  keen,  quiet  eyes 
that  never  faltered  in  their  progress  till  they  lighted 
upon  her.  She  fancied  there  was  a  faintly 
humorous  expression  about  his  mouth.  His 
look  did  not  dwell  upon  her.  He  stepped  aside  to 
a  vacant  chair  close  to  the  door,  and  Priscilla,  in 


Her  Hero  189 

her  great,  square  pew  near  the  pulpit,  saw  him  no 
more.  When  she  left  the  church  at  the  end  of  the 
service  he  had  already  disappeared. 

Froggy  went  out  to  tea  that  afternoon  with 
much  solicitous  regret,  which  Priscilla  treated  in  a 
spirit  of  levity.  She  packed  her  tea-basket  again 
as  soon  as  she  was  alone,  selecting  her  provisions 
with  care.  And  soon  after  three,  accompanied  by 
Romeo,  she  started  for  the  glen,  not  sauntering 
idly,  but  stepping  briskly  through  the  golden  sun- 
shine, as  one  with  a  purpose.  She  felt  as  if  she 
were  going  to  a  trysting-place,  though  no  word  of  a 
tryst  had  passed  between  them. 

He  was  there  before  her,  bareheaded  and  alert, 
quite  obviously  awaiting  her.  He  did  not  express 
his  pleasure  in  words  as  he  took  her  hand  in  his. 
Only  there  was  an  indescribable  look  in  his  brown 
eyes  that  made  her  very  glad  that  she  had  come. 
He  had  brought  an  enormous  basket  of  straw- 
berries, which  he  presented  with  that  drawling  ease 
of  manner  which  she  had  come  to  regard  as  pecu- 
liarly his  own,  and  they  settled  down  to  the 
afternoon's  enjoyment  in  a  harmony  as  complete 
as  the  summer  peace  about  them. 

No  spoken  confidences  passed  between  them. 
Their  intimacy  was  such  as  to  make  words  seem 
superfluous.  Both  seemed  to  feel  that  the  present 
was  all-sufficing. 

Only  once  did  Priscilla  challenge  Carfax's 
memory.  The  impulse  was  irresistible  at  the 
moment,  though  she  regretted  it  later.  He  was 


190  The  Swindler 

holding  out  to  her  the  biggest  strawberry  he  could 
find.  It  lay  on  a  leaf  on  the  palm  of  his  hand,  and 
as  she  took  it  she  suddenly  saw  a  long,  terrible 
scar  extending  upwards  from  his  wrist  till  his 
sleeve  hid  it  from  view. 

"Why,"  she  exclaimed,  with  a  start;  then, 
seeing  his  questioning  look,  "surely  that's  a 
burn?" 

"It  is,"  said  Carfax. 

He  turned  his  hand  over  to  hide  it.  His  manner 
seemed  to  indicate  that  he  did  not  wish  to  pur- 
sue the  subject.  But  Priscilla,  suddenly  reckless, 
ignored  the  hint. 

"But  how  did  you  do  it?"  she  asked. 

Carfax  hesitated  for  a  second,  then : 

"It  was  years  ago,"  he  said,  rather  unwillingly. 
"A  lady's  dress  caught  fire.  It  fell  to  me  to  put  it 
out." 

"How  brave!"  murmured  Priscilla.  Her  eyes 
were  shining.  Had  he  looked  up  then  he  must 
have  read  her  secret. 

But  he  did  not  look  up.  For  the  first  time  he 
seemed  to  be  labouring  under  some  spell  of  embar- 
rassment. 

"It  wasn't  brave  at  all,"  he  said,  after  a  mo- 
ment. "I  could  have  done  no  less." 

There  was  almost  a  vexed  note  in  his  voice. 
Yet  she  persisted. 

"What  was  she  like?  Wasn't  she  very  grate- 
ful?" 

"I    don't    know    at    all.       I    don't    suppose 


Her  Hero  191 

she  enjoyed  the  situation  any  more  than  I 
did." 

He  plucked  a  tuft  of  moss  and  tossed  it  from 
him,  as  if  therewith  dismissing  the  subject.  And 
Priscilla  felt  a  little  hurt,  though  not  for  worlds 
would  she  have  suffered  him  to  see  it. 

It  fell  to  him  to  break  the  silence  a  few  seconds 
later,  and  he  did  so  without  a  hint  of  diffi- 
culty. 

"When  am  I  going  to  see  the  crypt?" 

Priscilla  laughed  a  little. 

"Are  you  writing  a  book  about  the  place?" 

He  laughed  back  at  her  quite  openly. 

"Not  at  present.  When  I  do,  it  will  be  a 
romance,  with  you  for  heroine." 

"Oh,  no;  not  me!"  she  protested.  "I  am  a 
mere  nobody.  Lady  Priscilla  ought  to  be  your 
heroine." 

He  raised  his  eyebrows.  She  had  begun  to  asso- 
ciate that  look  of  his  with  protest  rather  than 
surprise. 

"I  have  yet  to  be  introduced  to  Lady  Priscilla, " 
he  said.  "And  as  she  doesn't  like  men,  I  almost 
think  I  shall  forego  the  pleasure  and  keep  out  of 
her  way." 

"Perhaps  I  have  given  you  a  wrong  impression 
about  her,"  Priscilla  said,  speaking  with  a  slight 
effort.  "It  is  only  the  idle,  foppish  men  about 
town  she  has  no  use  for." 

"She  is  fastidious,  apparently,"  he  returned, 
lying  down  abruptly  at  her  feet. 


192  The  Swindler 

"Don't  you  like  women  to  be  fastidious?" 
Priscilla  demanded  boldly. 

He  lay  quite  motionless  for  several  seconds,  then 
turned  in  a  leisurely  fashion  upon  his  side  to  survey 
her. 

"You  are  fastidious?"  he  asked. 

' '  Of  course  I  am ! "  Priscilla's  words  came  rather 
breathlessly.  "Don't  you  think  me  so?" 

Again  he  was  silent  for  seconds.  Then,  in  a 
baffling  drawl,  his  answer  came : 

"If  you  will  allow  me  to  say  so,  I  think  you  are 
just  the  sweetest  woman  I  ever  met." 

Priscilla  met  his  eyes  for  a  single  instant,  and 
looked  away.  She  was  burning  and  throbbing 
from  head  to  foot.  She  could  find  naught  to  say 
in  answer;  no  word  wherewith  to  turn  his  delib- 
erate sentence  into  a  jest.  Perhaps  in  her  secret 
heart  she  did  not  desire  to  do  so,  for  a  voice  within 
her,  a  voice  long  stifled,  cried  out  that  she  had  met 
her  mate.  And,  since  surrender  was  inevitable, 
why  should  she  seek  to  delay  it? 

But  Carfax  said  no  more.  Possibly  he  thought 
he  had  said  too  much.  At  least,  after  a  long, 
quiet  pause,  he  looked  away  from  her;  and  the 
spell  that  bound  her  passed. 


THE  OPENING  GATES 

That  evening  Priscilla  found  a  letter  from  her 
stepmother  awaiting  her — a  briefly  worded,  urgent 
summons. 


Her  Hero  193 

"Your  cousin  has  not  arrived,  after  all,"  it 
said.  "Your  father  and  I  are  greatly  disappointed. 
Would  it  not  be  as  well  for  you  to  return  to  town? 
You  can  scarcely,  I  fear,  afford  to  waste  your  time 
in  this  fashion.  Young  Lord  Harfield  was  asking 
for  you  most  solicitously  only  yesterday.  Such 
a  charming  man,  I  have  always  thought!" 

"That — chicken!"  said  Priscilla,  and  tossed  her 
letter  aside. 

Later,  she  went  up  to  the  top  of  the  Abbey,  and 
out  on  to  a  part  of  the  roof  that  had  been  battle- 
mented,  to  dream  her  dream  again  under  the  stars 
and  to  view  her  paradise  yet  more  closely  from 
before  the  opening  gates. 

It  was  very  late  when  she  returned  lightfooted 
to  Froggy's  sitting-room,  and,  kneeling  by  her 
friend's  side,  interposed  her  dark  head  between  the 
kind,  bulging  eyes  and  the  open  Bible  that  lay  upon 
the  table. 

"Froggy, "  she  whispered  softly,  " I 'm  so  happy, 
dear — so  happy ! " 

And  so  kneeling,  she  told  Froggy  in  short,  halt- 
ing sentences  of  the  sudden  splendour  that  had 
glorified  her  life. 

Froggy  was  greatly  astonished,  and  even  startled. 
She  was  also  anxious,  and  showed  it.  But  Priscilla 
hastened  to  smooth  this  away. 

"Yes,  I  know  it's  sudden.  But  sometimes,  you 
know,  love  is  like  that.  Don't  be  anxious, 
Froggy.  I  am  much  more  cautious — but  what  a 
ridiculous  word! — than  you  think.  He  doesn't 

13 


194  The  Swindler 

know  who  I  am  yet.  I  pretended  to  him  that  I 
was  a  relation  of  yours.  And  he  isn't  to  know  at 
present.  You  will  keep  that  in  mind,  won't  you? 
And  in  a  day  or  two  I  shall  bring  him  in  here  to 
tea,  and  you  will  be  able  to  judge  of  him  for  your- 
self. No,  dear,  no;  of  course  he  hasn't  spoken. 
It  is  much  too  soon.  You  forget  that  though  I 
have  known  him  so  long,  he  has  only  known  me 
for  two  days.  Oh,  Froggy,  isn't  it  wonderful  to 
think  of — that  he  should  have  come  at  last  like  this? 
It  is  almost  as  if — as  if  my  love  had  drawn  him." 

VI 

WITHIN  HER  PARADISE 

Priscilla's  reply  to  her  stepmother's  summons, 
written  several  days  later,  was  a  highly  unsatisfac- 
tory epistle  indeed,  in  the  opinion  of  its  recipient. 
She  found  it  quite  impossible  to  tear  herself  away 
from  the  country  while  the  fine  weather  lasted,  she 
wrote.  She  was  enjoying  herself  immensely,  and 
did  not  feel  that  she  could  ever  endure  the  whole  of 
a  London  season  in  one  dose  again. 

It  was  not  a  well-thought-out  letter,  being  written 
in  a  haste  that  made  itself  obvious  between  the 
lines.  Carfax  had  hired  a  motor-car,  and  was 
waiting  *or  her.  They  went  miles  that  day,  and 
when  they  stopped  at  last  they  were  in  a  country 
that  she  scarcely  knew — a  country  of  barren  downs 
and  great  sunlit  spaces,  lonely,  immense. 

"This  is  the  place,"  said  Carfax  quietly,  as  he 
helped  her  to  alight. 


Her  Hero  195 

Priscilla  walked  a  few  paces  and  stood  still. 
She  knew  exactly  why  he  had  chosen  it.  Her  heart 
was  beating  wildly.  It  seemed  to  dominate  all 
her  other  faculties.  She  felt  it  to  be  almost  more 
than  she  could  bear. 

Those  moments  of  unacknowledged  waiting 
were  terrible  to  her.  She  knew  she  had  taken  an 
irrevocable  step,  and  her  free  instinct  clamoured 
loudly  against  it.  It  amounted  almost  to  a  panic 
within  her. 

There  came  a  quiet  step  on  the  turf  behind 
her.  She  did  not  turn,  but  the  suspense  became 
suddenly  unendurable.  With  a  convulsive  move- 
ment, she  made  as  if  she  would  go  on.  At  the 
same  instant  an  arm  encircled  her,  checked  her, 
held  her  closely. 

"So,  sweetheart!"  said  Julian  Carfax,  his  voice 
soothing,  womanly,  but  possessing  withal  a  note  of 
vitality,  of  purpose,  that  she  had  never  heard  in  it 
before. 

She  suffered  his  hold  with  a  faint  but  desperate 
cry. 

"You  don't  know  me, "  she  said,  with  a  gasping 
effort.  "You  don't—"  The  words  failed.  He 
was  pressing  her  to  him  ever  more  closely,  and  she 
felt  his  fingers  gently  fumbling  at  her  veil.  With  a 
sudden  passionate  movement  she  put  up  both 
hands,  and  threw  it  back. 

"There ! "  she  said,  with  a  sound,  half  laugh,  half 
sob,  and  turned  herself  wholly  to  him. 

The  next  instant,  as  his  lips  pressed  hers,  all  the 


196  The  Swindler 

anguish  of  doubt  that  had  come  upon  her  was  gone 
like  an  evil  spirit  from  her  soul.  She  knew  only 
that  they  stood  alone  together  in  a  vast  space  that 
was  filled  to  the  brim  with  the  noonday  sunshine. 
All  her  heart  was  flooded  with  rejoicing.  The  gates 
had  opened  wide  for  her,  and  she  had  entered  in. 

VII 

BACK  TO  EARTH 

Priscilla  never  quite  realised  afterwards  how  it 
was  that  the  whole  of  that  long  summer  day  slipped 
by  and  her  confession  remained  still  unspoken. 
She  did  make  one  or  two  attempts  to  lead  round  to 
the  subject,  but  each  seemed  to  be  foredoomed  to 
failure,  and  at  last  she  abandoned  the  idea — for 
that  day,  at  least.  It  seemed,  after  all,  but  a 
paltry  thing  in  face  of  her  great  happiness. 

They  sped  homeward  at  length  in  the  light  of  a 
cloudless  sunset,  smoothly  and  swiftly  as  if  they 
swooped  through  air. 

"I  will  take  you  to  the  edge  of  the  park," 
Carfax  said ;  and  when  they  reached  it  he  took  her 
in  his  arms,  holding  her  fast,  as  if  he  could  not  bear 
to  let  her  go. 

They  parted  at  last  almost  in  silence,  but  with 
the  tacit  understanding  that  they  would  meet  in 
the  glen  on  the  following  day. 

Priscilla  walked  home  through  the  lengthening 
shadows  with  a  sense  of  wonderment  and  unreality 


Her  Hero  197 

at  her  heart.  He  had  asked  for  no  pledge,  yet  she 
knew  that  the  bond  between  them  was  such  as 
might  stretch  to  the  world's  end  and  never  break. 
They  belonged  to  each  other  irrevocably  now, 
whatever  might  intervene. 

She  reached  the  Abbey,  walking  as  in  a  maze  of 
happiness,  with  no  thought  for  material  things. 

Romeo  came  to  greet  her  with  effusion,  and  an 
air  of  having  something  to  tell  her.  She  fondled 
him,  and  went  on  with  him  into  the  house.  They 
entered  by  a  conservatory,  and  so  through  the 
shrouded  drawing-room  into  the  great  hall. 

The  girl's  eyes  were  dazzled  by  the  sudden 
gloom  she  found  there.  She  expected  to  meet  no 
one,  and  so  it  was  with  a  violent  start  that  she  saw 
a  man 's  figure  detach  itself  from  the  shadows  and 
come  towards  her. 

"Who  is  it?"  she  asked  sharply;  and  then  in 
astonishment :  ' '  Why,  Dad ! ' ' 

Her  father's  voice  answered  her,  but  not  with 
the  gruff  kindliness  to  which  she  was  accustomed. 
It  came  to  her  grim  and  stern,  and  she  knew 
instinctively  that  he  hated  the  errand  that  had 
brought  him. 

"  I  have  come  down  to  fetch  you, "  he  said.  "  I 
do  not  approve  of  your  being  here  alone.  It  is 
unusual  and  quite  unnecessary.  You  are  quite 
well?" 

"Yes,  I  am  well,"  Priscilla  said.  "But  why 
should  you  object  to  my  being  here?" 

She  stood  still,  facing  him.     She  knew  who  had 


198  The  Swindler 

inspired  this  interference,  and  from  the  bottom 
of  her  soul  she  resented  it.  Her  father  did  not 
answer.  Thinking  it  over  calmly  later,  she  knew 
that  he  was  ashamed. 

"  Be  ready  to  start  from  here  in  half  an  hour, " 
he  said.  "We  shall  catch  the  nine-thirty." 

Priscilla  made  no  further  protest.  Her  father 
had  never  addressed  that  tone  to  her  before,  and  it 
cut  her  to  the  heart. 

"Very  well,"  she  said;  and  turned  to  go. 

Her  deep  voice  held  no  anger,  and  only  Romeo, 
pressed  close  against  her,  knew  that  the  hand  that 
had  just  caressed  him  was  clenched  ari  quivering. 

VIII 

HER  SIMPLE  DUTY 

Priscilla  left  a  hastily  scribbled  note  for  Carfax 
in  Froggy 's  keeping.  In  it  she  explained  that  she 
was  obliged  to  go  to  town,  but  that  she  would  meet 
him  there  any  day  before  noon  at  any  place  that  he 
would  appoint.  Froggy  was  to  be  the  medium  of 
his  communication  also. 

She  made  no  mention  of  Carfax  to  her  father. 
He  had  hurt  her  far  too  deeply  for  any  confidence 
to  be  possible.  Moreover,  it  seemed  to  her  that 
she  had  no  right  to  speak  until  Carfax  himself 
gave  her  leave. 

She  did  not  see  her  stepmother  till  the  following 
day.  The  greeting  between  them  was  of  the 


Her  Hero  199 

coolest,  though  Lady  Raffold,  being  triumphant, 
sought  to  infuse  a  little  sentiment  into  hers. 

"I  am  really  worn  out,  Priscilla, "  she  said.  " It 
is  my  turn  now  to  have  a  little  rest.  I  am  going  to 
leave  all  the  hard  work  to  you.  It  will  be  such  a 
relief." 

Three  days  later,  however,  she  relinquished  this 
attitude.  Priscilla  was  summoned  to  her  room, 
where  she  was  breakfasting,  and  found  her  in  great 
excitement. 

"My  dear  child,  he  has  arrived.  He  has  ac- 
tually arrived,  and  is  staying  at  the  Ritz.  He 
must  come  and  dine  with  us  to-morrow  night.  It 
will  be  quite  an  informal  affair — only  thirty — so 
it  can  easily  be  managed.  He  must  take  you  in, 
Priscilla ;  and,  oh,  my  dear,  do  remember  that  it  is 
the  great  opportunity  of  your  life,  and  it  mustn't 
be  thrown  away,  whatever  happens !  Your  father 
has  set  his  heart  upon  it." 

"Are  you  talking  about  Mr.  Cochrane?"  asked 
Priscilla. 

"To  be  sure.  Who  else?  Now  don't  put  on 
that  far-away  look,  pray!  You  know  what  is, 
after  all,  your  simple  duty,  and  I  trust  you  mean 
to  do  it.  You  can't  be  going  to  disappoint  your 
father  in  this  matter.  And  you  really  must 
marry  soon  Priscilla.  It  is  getting  serious.  In 
fact,  it  worries  me  perpetually.  By  the  way,  here 
is  a  letter  for  you  from  Raffold.  It  must  have  got 
among  mine  by  mistake.  I.Irs.  Burrowes  's  hand- 
writing, I  imagine." 


2oo  The  Swindler 

She  was  right.  It  was  directed  by  Froggy,  but 
Priscilla  paled  suddenly  as  she  took  it,  realising 
that  it  contained  an  answer  to  her  own  urgent  note. 

Alone  in  her  own  room  she  opened  it.  The 
message  was  even  briefer  than  hers  had  been: 
"Sweetheart, — At  II  A.M.,  on  Thursday,  under  the 
dome  of  St.  Paul's  Cathedral. — I  am  thine,  J.  C." 

Priscilla  stood  for  long  seconds  with  the  note  in 
her  hand.  It  had  reached  her  too  late.  The  ap- 
pointment .had  been  for  the  day  before.  She 
turned  to  the  envelope,  and  saw  that  it  must  have 
been  lying  among  her  stepmother 's  correspondence 
for  two  days.  Doubtless  he  had  waited  for  her  at 
the  trysting-place,  and  waited  in  vain. 

Only  one  thing  remained  to  be  done,  and  that 
was  to  telegraph  to  Froggy  for  Carfax's  address. 
But  Froggy 's  answer,  when  it  came,  was  only 
another  disappointment : 

"Address  not  known.  Did  you  not  receive 
letter  I  forwarded?" 

Reluctantly  Priscilla  realised  that  there  was 
nothing  for  it  but  patience.  Carfax  would  almost 
certainly  write  again  through  Froggy. 

That  he  had  not  her  address  she  knew,  for 
Froggy  was  under  a  solemn  vow  to  reveal  nothing, 
but  she  would  not  believe  that  he  would  regard  her 
failure  to  keep  tryst  as  a  deliberate  effort  to  snub 
him,  though  the  fear  that  he  might  do  so  haunted 
and  grew  upon  her  all  through  the  day. 

She  went  to  a  theatre  that  night,  and  later  to 
a  dance,  but  neither  entertainment  served  to  lift 


Her  Hero  201 

the  deadening  weight  from  her  spirits.  She  was 
miserable,  and  the  four  hours  she  subsequently 
spent  in  bed  brought  her  no  relief. 

She  rose  at  last  in  sheer  desperation,  and  went 
for  an  early  ride  in  the  Park.  She  met  a  few 
acquaintances,  but  she  shook  them  off.  She 
wanted  to  be  alone. 

When  she  was  returning,  however,  her  youthful 
admirer,  Lord  Harfield,  attached  himself  to  her, 
refusing  to  be  discouraged. 

"I  met  your  cousin  at  the  Club  yesterday ,"  he 
told  her. 

"What  is  he  like?"  Priscilla  asked,  without 
much  interest. 

"Oh,  haven't  you  seen  him  yet?  A  very  queer 
fish,  with  a  twang  you  could  cut  with  a  knife. 
Don't  think  you'll  like  him,"  said  Lord  Harfield, 
who  was  jealous  of  every  man  who  so  much  as 
bowed  to  Priscilla. 

Priscilla  smiled  faintly. 

"I  don't  think  so,  either,"  she  said.  "You  are 
coming  to  dine  with  us  to-night,  aren't  you?  He 
will  be  there  too." 

"Will  he?  I  say,  what  a  bore  for  you!  Yes, 
I'm  coming.  I'll  do  my  best  to  help  you,"  the 
boy  assured  her  eagerly. 

And  again  Priscilla  smiled.  She  was  quite  sure 
that  she  would  be  bored,  whatever  happened, 
though  she  was  too  kind-hearted  to  say  so. 


202  The  Swindler 

IX 

THE  COMING  OF  HER  HERO 

"  I  wonder  why  Priscilla  has  put  on  that  severely 
plain  attire?  It  makes  her  look  almost  ugly," 
sighed  Lady  Raff  old.  "And  how  dreadfully  pale 
she  is  to-night !  Really,  I  have  never  seen  her  look 
more  unattractive." 

She  turned  with  her  most  dazzling  smile  to 
receive  the  American  Ambassador,  and  no  one 
could  have  guessed  that  under  her  smile  was  real 
anger,  because  her  stepdaughter  was  gracing  the 
occasion  in  a  robe  of  sombre  black. 

All  the  guests  had  arrived  with  the  exception  of 
Ralph  Cochrane,  the  heir-apparent,  as  Priscilla 
styled  him,  and  Lady  Raffold  chatted  with  one  eye 
on  the  door.  It  was  too  bad  of  the  young  man  to 
be  late. 

She  was  just  giving  him  up  in  despair,  and  pre- 
paring to  proceed  to  the  dining-room  without  him, 
when  his  name  was  announced.  Lord  Raffold 
went  forward  to  meet  him.  Priscilla,  sitting  on  a 
lounge  with  Lord  Harfield's  mother,  caught  the 
sound  of  a  soft,  leisurely  voice  apologising;  and 
something  tightened  suddenly  at  her  heart,  and 
held  its  beatir  ~.  It  was  a  voice  she  knew. 

As  through  a  mist,  she  looked  across  the  great 
room,  with  its  many  lights,  its  buzz  of  careless 
voices.  And  suddenly,  it  seemed  to  her,  she  was 
back  in  the  little  village  church  at  Raffold,  fur- 


Her  Hero  203 

lively  watching  a  stranger  who  stood  in  the  en- 
trance, and  searched  with  level  scrutiny  quite 
deliberately  and  frankly  till  he  found  her. 

Their  eyes  met,  and  her  heart  thrilled  respon- 
sively  as  an  instrument  thrills  to  the  hand  of  a 
skilled  player. 

Almost  involuntarily  she  rose.  There  was  some 
mistake.  She  knew  there  must  be  some  mistake. 
She  felt  that  in  some  fashion  it  rested  -with  her 
to  explain  and  to  justify  his  presence  there. 

But  in  that  instant  his  eyes  left  her,  and  the 
magnetism  that  compelled  her  died  swiftly  down. 
She  saw  him  shake  hands  with  Lady  Raffold,  and 
bow  to  the  Ambassador. 

Then  came  her  stepmother's  quick,  beckoning 
glance,  and  she  moved  forward  in  response  to  it. 
She  was  quivering  from  head  to  foot,  bewildered, 
in  some  subtle  fashion  afraid. 

"My  dear,  your  cousin.  He  will  take  you  in. 
Ralph,  this  is  Priscilla." 

It  was  sublimely  informal.  Lady  Raffold  had 
rehearsed  that  introduction  several  times.  It  was 
half  the  battle  that  the  young  man  should  feel 
himself  one  c c  the  family  from  the  outset. 

Priscilla  grabbed  at  her  self-control,  and  man- 
aged to  bow.  But  the  next  instant  his  hand, 
strong,  warm,  reassuring,  grasped  hers. 

"  Curious,  isn't  it?  "  the  quiet  voice  asked.  "We 
can't  be  strangers,  you  and  I." 

The  grip  of  his  fingers  was  close  and  intimate. 
It  was  as  if  he  appealed  for  her  support. 


204  The  Swindler 

With  an  effort  she  forced  herself  to  respond : 

"Of  course  not.  It  must  be  quite  five  years 
since  our  first  meeting." 

He  looked  at  her  oddly,  quizzically,  as  he  offered 
his  arm. 

"Why,  yes, "  he  drawled,  as  they  began  to  move 
towards  the  door.  "Should  auld  acquaintance  be 
forgot?  It  is  exactly  five  years  ago  to-day." 

X 

THE  STORY  OF  A  FRAUD 

"Funny,  wasn't  it,  sweetheart?" 

The  soft  voice  reached  her  through  a  buzz  of 
other  louder  voices.  Priscilla  moved  slightly,  but 
she  did  not  turn  her  head. 

"You  will  have  to  explain, "  she  said.  "I  don't 
understand  anything  yet." 

"Nor  I,"  came  the  quiet  retort.  "It's  the 
woman's  privilege  to  explain  first,  isn't  it?" 

Against  her  will,  the  blood  rose  in  her  face. 
She  threw  him  a  quick  glance. 

"I  can't  possibly  explain  anything  here,"  she 
said. 

He  met  her  look  with  steady  eyes. 

"Let  me  tell  you  the  story  of  a  fraud,"  he 
said;  and  proceeded  without  further  preliminary. 
"There  was  once  a  man — a  second  son,  without 
prospects  and  without  fame — who  had  the  good 
fortune  to  do  a  service  to  a  woman.  He  went  away 
immediately  afterwards  lest  he  should  make  a 


Her  Hero  205 

fool  of  himself,  for  she  was  miles  above  his  head, 
anyway.  But  he  never  forgot  her.  The  mischief 
was  done,  so  far  as  he  was  concerned." 

He  broke  off,  and  raised  his  champagne  to  his 
lips  as  if  he  drank  to  a  memory. 

Priscilla  was  listening,  but  her  eyes  were  down- 
cast. She  wore  the  old,  absent  look  that  her 
stepmother  always  deprecated.  The  soft  drawl 
at  her  side  continued,  every  syllable  distinct  and 
measured. 

"Years  passed,  and  things  changed.  The  man 
had  belonged  to  a  cadet  branch  of  an  aristocratic 
British  family.  But  one  heir  after  another  died, 
till  only  he  was  left  to  inherit.  The  woman  be- 
longed to  the  older  branch  of  the  family,  but,  being 
a  woman,  she  was  passed  over.  A  time  came  when 
he  was  invited  by  the  head  of  the  house  to  go  and 
see  his  inheritance.  He  would  have  gone  at  once 
and  gladly,  but  for  a  hint  at  the  end  of  the  letter  to 
the  effect  that,  if  he  would  do  his  part,  what  the 
French  shamelessly  call  a  mariage  de  convenance 
might  be  arranged  between  his  cousin  and  himself 
— an  arrangement  advantageous  to  them  both  from 
a  certain  point  of  view.  He  didn't  set  up  for  a 
paragon  of  morality.  Perhaps  even,  had  things 
been  a  little  different,  he  might  have  been  willing. 
As  it  was,  he  didn't  like  the  notion,  and  he  jibbed." 
He  paused.  "But  for  all  that, "  he  said,  his  voice 
yet  quieter  and  more  deliberate,  "he  wanted  the 
v.  jman,  if  he  could  make  her  care  for  him.  That 
was  his  difficulty.  He  had  a  feeling  all  along  that 


206  The  Swindler 

the  thing  must  be  an  even  greater  offence  to  her 
than  it  was  to  him.  He  worried  it  all  through,  and 
at  last  he  worked  out  a  scheme  for  them  both.  He 
called  himself  by  an  old  school  alias,  and  came  to 
her  as  a  stranger 

"You're  not  eating  anything,  sweetheart. 
Wouldn't  it  be  as  well,  just  for  decency's  sake? 
There's  a  comic  ending  to  this  story,  so  you 
mustn't  be  sad.  Who's  that  boy  scowling  at  me 
on  the  other  side  of  the  table?  What's  the  matter 
with  the  child?" 

"Never  mind,"  murmured  Priscilla  hastily. 
"He  doesn't  mean  anything.  Please  go  on." 

He  began  to  laugh  at  her  with  gentle  ridicule. 

"  Impatient  for  the  third  act?  Well,  the  scheme 
worked  all  right.  But  it  so  chanced  that  the 
woman  decided  to  be  subtle,  too.  She  knew  him 
for  an  old  friend  the  instant  she  saw  him.  But  he 
pretended  to  have  forgotten  that  old  affair  in  New 
York.  He  didn't  want  her  to  feel  in  any  way 
under  an  obligation.  So  he  played  the  humble 
stranger,  and  she — sweetheart — she  played  the 
simple,  country  maiden,  and  she  did  it  to  perfec- 
tion. I  think,  you  know,  that  she  was  a  little 
afraid  her  name  and  title  would  frighten  him 
away." 

"And  so  he  humoured  her?"  said  Priscilla,  a 
slight  quiver  in  her  deep  voice. 

"They  humoured  each  other,  sweetheart.  That 
was  where  it  began  to  be  funny.  Now  I  am  going 
to  get  you  to  tell  me  the  rest  of  the  story." 


Her  Hero  207 

She  turned  towards  him  again,  her  face  very 
pale. 

"Yes;  it's  very  funny,  no  doubt — funny  for 
the  man,  I  mean ;  for  the  woman,  I  am  not  so  sure. 
How  does  she  know  that  he  really  cared  for  her 
from  the  beginning;  that  he  was  always  quite 
honest  in  his  motive?  How  can  she  possibly  know 
this?" 

Again  for  a  moment  their  eyes  met.  There  was 
no  hint  of  dismay  in  the  man 's  brown  face. 

"She  does  know  it,  sweetheart,"  he  answered, 
with  confidence.  "I  can't  tell  you  how.  Prob- 
ably she  couldn't,  either.  He  was  going  to  ex- 
plain everything,  you  know,  under  the  dome  of 
St.  Paul's  Cathedral.  But  for  some  reason  it 
didn't  come  off.  He  spent  three  solid  hours 
waiting  for  her,  but  she  didn't  come.  She  had 
found  him  c  ~.t,  perhaps?  And  was  angry?" 

"Perhaps,"  said  Priscilla,  her  voice  very  low. 

Again  he  raised  his  glass  to  his  lips. 

"We  will  have  the  end  of  the  story  presently," 
he  said;  and  deliberately  turned  to  his  left-hand 
neighbour. 

XI 

THE  END  OF  THE  STORY 

A  musical  soiree  was  to  follow  that  interminable 
dinner,  and  for  a  time  Priscilla  was  occupied  in 
helping  Lady  Raffold  to  receive  the  after-dinner 


208  The  Swindler 

guests.  She  longed  to  escape  before  the  contingent 
from  the  dining-room  arrived  upstairs,  but  she 
soon  realised  the  impossibility  of  this.  Her  step- 
mother seemed  to  want  her  at  every  turn,  and  when 
at  length  she  found  herself  free,  young  Lord  Har- 
field  appeared  at  her  elbow. 

It  was  intolerable.  She  turned  upon  him  with- 
out pity. 

"Oh,  please,"  she  said,  "I've  dropped  my  fan 
in  the  dining-room  or  on  the  stairs.  Would  you 
be  so  kind " 

He  departed,  not  suspecting  her  of  treachery; 
and  she  slipped  forthwith  into  a  tiny  conservatory 
behind  the  piano.  It  was  her  only  refuge.  She 
could  but  hope  that  no  one  had  seen  her  retire 
thither.  Her  need  for  solitude  just  then  was 
intense.  She  felt  herself  physically  incapable  of 
facing  the  crowd  in  the  music-room  any  longer. 
The  first  crashing  chords  of  the  piano  covered  her 
retreat.  She  shut  herself  softly  in,  and  sank  into 
the  only  chair  the  little  place  contained. 

Her  mind  was  a  chaos  of  conflicting  emotions. 
Anger,  disappointment,  and  an  almost  insane 
exultation  fought  together  for  the  mastery.  She 
longed  to  be  rational,  to  think  the  matter  out 
quietly  and  impartially,  and  decide  how  to  treat  it. 
But  her  most  determined  efforts  were  vain.  The 
music  disturbed  her.  She  felt  as  if  the  chords  were 
hammering  upon  her  brain.  Yet  when  it  suddenly 
ceased,  the  unexpected  silence  was  almost  harder 
to  bear. 


Her  Hero  209 

In  the  buzz  of  applause  that  ensued,  the  door 
behind  her  opened,  and  a  man  entered. 

She  heard  the  click  of  the  key  in  the  lock,  and 
turned  sharply  to  protest.  But  the  words  died  on 
her  lips,  for  there  was  that  in  his  brown,  resolute 
face  that  silenced  her.  She  became  suddenly 
breathless  and  quivering  before  him,  as  she  had 
been  that  day  on  the  down  when  he  had  taken  her 
into  his  arms. 

He  withdrew  the  key,  and  dropped  it  into  her 
lap. 

"Open  if  you  will,"  he  said,  in  the  quiet  voice, 
half  tender,  half  humorous,  that  she  had  come  to 
know  so  well.  "I  am  closely  followed  by  the 
infant  with  the  scowl." 

Priscilla  sat  silent  in  her  chair.  What  could 
she  say  to  him? 

"Well?"  he  said,  after  a  moment.  "The  end 
of  the  story — is  it  written  yet?" 

She  shook  her  head  dumbly.  Curiously,  the 
throbbing  anger  had  left  her  heart  at  the  mere 
sound  of  his  voice. 

He  waited  for  about  three  seconds,  then  knelt 
quietly  down  beside  her. 

"Say,"  he  drawled,  "I  kind  of  like  Raffold 
Abbey,  sweetheart.  Wouldn't  it  be  nice  to  spend 
our  honeymoon  there?  Do  you  think  they  would 
let  us?"  He  laid  his  hand  upon  both  of  hers. 
1 '  Wouldn't  it  be  good  ?  "  he  said  softly.  ' '  I  should 
think  there  would  be  room  for  two,  eh,  sweet- 
heart?" 


210  The  Swindler 

With  an  effort  she  sought  to  withstand  him 
before  he  wholly  dominated  her. 

"And  every  one  will  call  it  a  mariage  de  con- 
venance!" 

"Let  them!"  he  answered,  with  suppressed  in- 
difference. "I  reckon  we  shall  have  the  laugh. 
But  it  isn't  so  unusual,  you  know.  Americans 
always  fall  in  love  at  first  sight." 

He  was  unanswerable.  He  was  sublime.  She 
marvelled  that  she  could  have  ever  even  attempted 
to  resist  him. 

With  a  sudden,  tremulous  laugh,  she  caught  his 
hand  to  her,  holding  it  fast. 

"Not  Americans  only!"  she  said.  And  swiftly, 
passionately,  she  bent  and  pressed  her  lips  to  the 
red,  seared  scar  upon  her  hero's  wrist. 


The  Example 


'AND  the  fourth  angel  poured  out  his  vial  upon 

^*  the  sun ;  and  power  was  given  unto  him  to 
scorch  men  with  fire.  And  men  were  scorched 
with  great  heat,  and  blasphemed  the  name  of  God, 
which  hath  power  over  these  plagues;  and  they 
repented  not  to  give  Him  glory." 

The  droning  voice  quivered  and  fell  silent. 
Within  the  hospital  tent,  only  the  buzz  of  flies 
innumerable  was  audible.  Without,  there  sounded 
near  at  hand  the  squeak  of  a  sentry's  boots,  and 
in  the  distance  the  clatter  of  the  camp. 

The  man  who  lay  dying  was  in  a  remote  and 
quite  detached  sense  aware  of  these  things,  but  his 
fevered  imagination  had  carried  him  beyond.  He 
watched,  as  it  were,  the  glowing  pictures  that 
came  and  went  in  his  furnace  of  pain.  These  little 
details  were  to  him  but  the  distant  humming  of  the 
spinning-wheel  of  time  from  which  he  was  drawing 
ever  farther  and  farther  away.  They  did  not 
touch  that  inner  consciousness  with  which  he  saw 
his  visions. 

Now  and  then  he  turned  his  head  sharply  on  the 
pillow,  as  an  alien  might  turn  at  the  sound  of  a 

211 


212  The  Swindler 

familiar  voice,  but  always,  after  listening  intently, 
it  came  back  to  its  old  position,  and  the  man 's  rest- 
less eyes  returned  to  the  crack  high  up  in  the  tent 
canvas  through  which  the  sun  shone  upon  him  like 
a  piercing  eye. 

The  occupant  of  the  bed  next  to  him  watched 
him  furtively,  fascinated  but  uneasy.  He  was  a 
young  soldier  of  the  simple  country  type,  and  the 
wild  words  that  came  now  and  again  from  the 
fevered  lips  startled  him  uncomfortably.  He 
wished  the  dying  man  would  cease  his  niutterings 
and  let  him  sleep.  But  every  time  the  prolonged 
silence  seemed  to  indicate  a  final  cessation  of  the 
nuisance,  the  droning  voice  took  up  the  tale  once 
more. 

"And  men  were  scorched  with  great  heat — and 
they  repented  not — repented  not." 

A  soft-stepping  native  orderly  moved  to  the  bed- 
side and  paused.  Instantly  the  wandering  words 
were  hushed. 

"  Bring  me  some  water,  Sammy, "  the  same  voice 
said  huskily.  "If  you  can't  take  the  sun  out  of 
the  sky,  you  can  give  me  a  drink." 

The  native  shook  his  head. 

"  The  doctor  will  come  soon, "  he  said  soothingly. 
"  Have  patience." 

Patience !  The  word  had  no  meaning  for  him  in 
that  inferno  of  suffering.  He  moved  his  head,  that 
searching  spot  of  sunlight  dancing  in  his  eyes,  and 
cursed  deep  in  his  throat  the  man  who  kept  him 
waiting. 


The  Example  213 

Barely  a  minute  later  the  doctor  came — a  quiet, 
bronzed  man,  level-eyed  and  strong.  He  bent  over 
the  stricken  figure  on  the  bed,  and  drew  the 
tumbled  covering  up  a  little  higher.  He  had  just 
written  "mortally  wounded"  of  this  man  on  his 
hospital  report,  but  there  was  nothing  in  his  manner 
to  indicate  that  he  had  no  hope  for  him. 

"Get  another  pillow,"  he  said  to  the  native 
orderly.  And  to  the  dying  man:  "That  will 
take  the  sun  out  of  your  eyes.  I  see  it  is  bothering 
you." 

"Curse  the  sun!"  the  parched  lips  gasped. 
"Can't  you  give  me  a  drink?" 

The  eyes  of  the  young  soldier  in  the  next  bed 
scanned  the  doctor's  face  anxiously.  He,  too, 
wanted  a  drink.  He  thirsted  from  the  depths  of 
his  soul.  But  he  knew  there  was  no  water  to  be 
had.  The  supply  had  been  cut  off  hours  before. 

"  No, "  the  doctor  said  gravely.  "  I  can 't  give  it 
you  yet.  By-and-bye,  perhaps " 

"  By-and-bye ! "  There  was  a  dreadful  sound 
like  laughter  in  the  husky  voice. 

The  doctor  laid  a  restraining  hand  on  the  man 's 
chest. 

"Hush!"  he  said,  in  a  lower  tone.  "It's  this 
sort  of  thing  that  shows  what  a  fellow  is  made  of. 
All  these  other  poor  chaps  are  children.  But  you, 
Ford,  you  are  grown  up,  so  to  speak.  I  look  to 
you  to  help  me, — to  set  the  example." 

1 '  Example !  Man  alive ! "  A  queer  light  danced 
like  a  mocking  spirit  in  Private  Ford's  eyes, 


214  The  Swindler 

and  again  he  laughed — an  exceeding  bitter  laugh. 
"I've  been  made  an  example  of  all  my  life,"  he 
said.  "I 've  sometimes  thought  it  was  what  I  was 
created  for.  Ah,  thanks!"  he  added  in  a  different 
tone,  as  the  doctor  raised  him  on  the  extra  pillow. 
"You're  a  brick,  sir!  Sit  down  a  minute,  will 
you?  I  want  to  talk  to  you." 

The  doctor  complied,  his  hand  on  the  wounded 
man's  wrist. 

"That's  better,"  Ford  said.  "Keep  it  there. 
And  stop  me  if  I  rave.  It's  a  queer  little  world, 
isn't  it?  I  remember  you  well,  but  you  wouldn't 
know  me.  You  were  one  of  the  highfliers,  and  I 
was  always  more  or  less  of  an  earthworm.  But 
you  '11  remember  Rotherby,  the  captain  of  the  first 
eleven?  A  fine  chap — that.  He 's  dead  now,  eh ?' ' 

"Yes,"  the  doctor  said,  "  Rotherby 's  dead." 

He  was  looking  with  an  intent  scrutiny  at  the 
scarred  and  bandaged  face  on  the  pillow.  He  had 
felt  from  the  first  that  this  man  was  no  ordinary 
ranker.  Yet  till  that  moment  it  had  never  oc- 
curred to  him  that  they  might  have  met  before. 

"I  always  liked  Rotherby,"  the  husky  voice 
went  on.  "He  was  a  big  swell,  and  he  didn't 
think  much  of  small  fry.  But  you — you  and  he 
were  friends,  weren't  you?" 

"For  a  time, "  the  doctor  said.     "  It  didn't  last." 

There  was  regreo  in  his  voice — the  keen  regret  of 
a  man  who  has  lost  a  thing  he  valued. 

"No;  it  didn't  last,"  Ford  agreed.  "I  re- 
member when  you  chucked  him.  Or  was  it  the 


The  Example  215 

other  way  round?  I  saw  a  good  deal  of  him  in 
those  days.  I  thought  him  a  jolly  good  fellow,  till 
I  found  out  what  a  scoundrel  he  was.  And  I  had 
a  soft  feeling  for  him  even  then.  You  knew  he 
was  a  scoundrel,  didn't  you?" 

"Yes,  I  knew." 

The  doctor  spoke  reluctantly.  The  hospital 
tent,  the  silent  row  of  wounded  men,  the  stifling 
atmosphere,  the  flies,  all  were  gone  from  his  inner 
vision.  He  was  looking  with  grave,  compassion- 
ate eyes  at  the  picture  that  absorbed  the  man  at 
his  side. 

"He  was  good  company,  eh?"  the  restless  voice 
went  on.  "But  he  had  his  black  moments.  I 
didn't  know  him  so  well  in  the  days  when  you  and 
he  were  friends." 

"Nor  I,"  the  doctor  said.  "But — why  do  you 
want  to  talk  of  him?" 

Again  he  was  searching  the  face  at  his  side  with 
grave  intensity.  It  did  not  seem  to  him  that  this 
man  could  ever  have  been  of  the  sort  that  his 
friend  Rotherby  would  have  cared  to  admit  to 
terms  of  intimacy.  Rotherby — notwithstanding 
his  sins — had  been  fastidious  in  many  ways. 

The  answer  seemed  to  make  the  matter  more 
comprehensible . 

"I  was  with  him  when  he  died,"  the  man  said. 
"It  was  in  just  such  an  inferno  as  this.  We  were 
alone  together,  looking  for  gold  in  the  Australian 
desert.  We  didn't  find  it,  though  it  was  there, 
mountains  of  it.  The  water  gave  out.  We  tossed 


216  The  Swindler 

for  the  last  drain — and  I  won.  That  was  how 
Rotherby  came  to  die.  He  hadn't  much  to  live 
for,  and  he  was  going  to  die,  anyhow.  A  queer 
chap,  he  was.  He  and  his  wife  never  lived  to- 
gether after  the  smash  came,  and  he  had  to  leave 
the  country.  Perhaps  you  knew?" 

"Yes,"  the  doctor  said  again," I  knew." 
-  Ford  moved  his  head  restlessly. 

"The  thought  of  her  used  to  worry  him  in  the 
night,"  he  said,  "I've  known  him  lie  for  hours 
not  sleeping,  just  staring  up  at  the  stars,  and  think- 
ing, thinking.  I've  sometimes  thought  that  the 
worst  torture  on  earth  can't  equal  that.  You 
know,  after  he  was  dead,  they  found  her  miniature 
on  him — a  thing  in  a  gold  case,  with  their  names 
engraved  inside.  He  used  to  wear  it  round  his 
neck  like  a  charm.  It  was  by  that  they  identified 
him — that  and  his  signet-ring,  and  one  or  two 
letters.  Scamp  though  I  was,  I  had  the  grace  not 
to  rob  the  dead.  They  sent  the  things  to  his  wife. 
I've  often  wondered  what  she  did  with  them." 

"I  can  tell  you  that,"  said  the  doctor  quietly. 
"She  keeps  them  among  her  greatest  treasures." 

Ford  turned  sharply  on  his  pillows,  and  stifled 
an  exclamation  of  pain. 

"You  know  her  still,  then?"  he  said. 

"She  is  my  wife, "  the  doctor  answered. 

A  long  silence  followed  his  words.  The  wounded 
soldier  lay  with  closed  eyes  and  drawn  brows.  He 
seemed  to  be  unconscious  of  everything  save  phy- 
sical pain. 


The  Example  217 

Suddenly  he  seemed  to  recover  himself,  and 
looked  up. 

"You,"  he  said  slowly,  "you  are  Montagu 
Durant,  the  fellow  she  was  engaged  to  before  she 
married  Rotherby." 

The  doctor  bent  his  head. 

"Yes,"  he  said.     "I  am  Montagu  Durant." 

" Rotherby 's  friend,"  Ford  went  on.  "The 
chap  who  stuck  to  him  through  thick  and  thin — to 
be  betrayed  in  the  end.  I  know  all  about  you,  you 
see,  though  you  haven't  placed  me  yet." 

"No,  I  can't  place  you,"  Durant  said.  "I 
don't  think  we  ever  knew  each  other  very  well. 
You  will  have  to  tell  me  who  you  are." 

"Later — later, "  said  Ford.  "No,  you  never 
knew  me  very  well.  It  was  always  you  and  Roth- 
erby, you  and  Rotherby.  You  never  looked  at  any 
one  else,  till  that  row  at  the  'Varsity  when  he  got 
kicked  out.  Yes,"  with  a  sudden,  sharp  sigh,  "I 
was  a  'Varsity  man  too.  I  admired  Leonard 
Rotherby  in  those  days.  Poor  old  Leo!  He 
knew  how  to  hit  a  boundary  as  well  as  any  fellow ! 
You  never  forgave  him,  I  suppose,  for  marrying 
your  girl?" 

There  was  a  pause,  and  the  fevered  eyes  sought 
Durant 's  face.  The  answer  came  at  length  very 
slowly. 

"I  could  have  forgiven  him,"  Durant  said,  "if 
he  had  stuck  to  her  and  made  her  happy." 

"Ah!  There  came  the  rub.  But  did  Rotherby 
ever  stick  to  anything?  It  was  a  jolly  good  thing 


218  The  Swindler 

he  died — for  all  concerned.  Yet,  you  know,  he 
cared  for  her  to  the  last.  Blackguard  as  he  was,  he 
carried  her  in  his  heart  right  up  to  his  death.  I 
tell  you  I  was  with  him,  and  I  know." 

There  was  strong  insistence  in  the  man 's  words. 
Durant  could  feel  the  racing  pulse  leap  and  quiver 
under  his  hand.  He  leaned  forward  a  little,  look- 
ing closely  into  the  drawn  face. 

"I  think  you  have  talked  enough,"  he  said. 
"Try  to  get  some  rest." 

"I  haven't  raved,"  said  Ford,  with  confidence. 
"  It  has  done  me  good  to  talk.  I  can't  help  think- 
ing of  Leo  Rotherby.  My  brain  runs  on  him. 
He  wanted  to  see  you — horribly — before  he  died. 
I  believe  he'd  have  asked  your  forgiveness.  But 
you  wouldn't  have  given  it  to  him,  I  suppose? 
You  will  never  forgive  him  in  your  heart?" 

Again  the  answer  did  not  come  at  once.  Durant 
was  frowning  a  little — the  frown  of  a  man  who  tries 
to  fathom  his  own  secret  impulses. 

"I  think,"  he  said  at  last,  "that  if  I  had  seen 
him  and  he  had  asked  for  it,  I  should  not  have 
refused  my  forgiveness." 

"No  one  ever  refused  Rotherby  anything," 
said  the  dying  man,  with  a  curious,  half -humorous 
twist  of  his  mouth  under  its  dark  moustache. 

"Except  yourself,"  Durant  reminded  him,  al- 
most involuntarily. 

Again  the  wandering,  uneasy  eyes  sought  his. 
"You  mean — that  drain  of  water, "  Ford  said,  with 
a  total  lack  of  shame  or  remorse.  "Yes,  it's  true 


The  Example  219 

Rotherby  didn't  have  that.  But  it  didn't  make 
any  difference,  you  know.  He  was  going  to  die. 
And  the  living  come  before  the  dead,  eh,  doctor?  " 

Durant  did  not  quite  understand  his  tone,  but 
he  suffered  the  words  to  go  unchallenged.  Pie  was 
not  there  to  discuss  the  higher  morality  with  a 
dying  man.  Moreover,  he  knew  that  the  bare 
mention  of  water  was  a  fiery  torture  to  him,  dis- 
guise it  as  he  might. 

He  sat  a  little  longer,  then  rose  to  go.  He 
fancied  that  there  was  a  shade  less  of  restlessness 
about  this  man,  whom  he  knew  to  be  suffering 
what  no  other  man  in  the  tent  could  have  endured 
in  silence. 

In  response  to  a  sign  he  stooped  to  catch  a  few, 
low-spoken  words. 

11  By-and-bye, "  said  Private  Ford,  with  husky 
self-assurance,  "when  it 's  dark — or  only  moonlight 
— a  man  will  creep  out  between  the  lines  and  crawl 
down  to  the  river,  to  get  some  water  for — the 
children." 

He  was  wandering  again,  Durant  saw;  and  his 
pity  mounted  high. 

"Perhaps,  poor  fellow;  perhaps,"  he  answered 
gently. 

As  he  went  away  he  heard  again  the  droning, 
unconscious  voice : 

"And  power  was  given  unto  him  to  scorch  men 
with  fire.  And  men  were  scorched — with  great 
heat.  Eh,  Sammy?  Is  that  water  you  have 
there?  Quick!  Give  me — what?  There  is  none? 


22O  The  Swindler 

Then  why  the — why  the — "  There  came  an 
abrupt  pause;  then  a  brief,  dry  chuckle  that  was 
like  the  crackling  of  flame  through  dead  twigs. 
"Ah,  I  forgot.  I  mustn't  curse.  I've  got  to  set 
the  example  to  these  children.  But,  O  God,  the 
heat  and  the  flies!" 

Durant  wondered  if  after  all  it  had  been  a  kind- 
ness to  call  back  the  passing  spirit  that  had  begun 
to  forget. 

Slowly  the  scorching  day  wore  away,  till  evening 
descended  in  a  blaze  of  gorgeous  colouring  upon 
the  desolate  African  wilderness  and  the  band  of 
men  that  had  been  surrounded  and  cut  off  by  a 
wily  enemy. 

They  were  expecting  relief.  Hourly  they  ex- 
pected it,  but,  being  hampered  by  a  score  of 
wounded,  it  was  not  possible  for  them  to  break 
through  the  thickly  populated  scrub  unassisted. 
And  they  had  no  water. 

A  stream  flowed,  brown  and  sluggish,  not  more 
than  a  hundred  yards  below  the  camp.  But  that 
same  stream  was  flanked  on  the  farther  side  by  a 
long,  black  line  of  thicket  that  poured  forth  fire 
upon  any  man  who  ventured  out  from  behind  the 
great  rocks  that  protected  the  camp. 

It  had  been  attempted  again  and  again,  for  the 
needs  of  the  wounded  were  desperate.  But  each 
effort  had  been  disastrous,  and  at  last  an  order  had 
gone  forth  that  no  man  was  to  expose  himself  again 
to  this  deadly  risk. 


The  Example  221 

So,  silent  behind  their  entrenchments,  with  the 
hospital  tent  in  their  midst,  the  British  force  had 
to  endure  the  situation,  waiting  with  a  dogged 
patience  for  the  coming  of  their  comrades  who 
could  not  be  far  away. 

Regal  to  the  last,  the  sun  sank  away  in  orange 
and  gold;  and  night,  burning,  majestic,  shimmer- 
ing, spread  over  a  cloudless  sky.  A  full  moon 
floated  up  behind  dense  forest  trees,  and  shed  a 
glimmering  radiance  everywhere.  The  heat  did 
not  seem  to  vary  by  a  breath. 

A  great  restlessness  spread  like  a  wave  through 
the  hospital  tent.  Men  waked  from  troubled 
slumber,  crying  aloud  like  children,  piteously, 
unreasoningly,  for  water. 

The  doctor  went  from  one  to  another,  restrain- 
ing, soothing,  reassuring.  His  influence  made  it- 
self felt,  and  quiet  returned;  but  it  was  a  quiet 
that  held  no  peace ;  it  was  the  silent  gripping  of  an 
agony  that  was  bound  to  overcome. 

Again  and  again  through  the  crawling  hours  the 
bitter  protest  broke  out  afresh,  like  the  crying  of 
souls  in  torment.  One  or  two  became  delirious  and 
had  to  be  forcibly  restrained  from  struggling  forth 
in  search  of  that  which  alone  could  still  their  torture. 

Durant  was  too  fully  occupied  with  these  raving 
patients  of  his  to  spare  any  attention  for  the  bed 
in  the  far  corner  on  which  they  had  laid  the  one 
man  whose  injuries  were  mortal.  If  he  thought  of 
the  man  at  all,  it  was  to  reflect  that  he  was  prob- 
ably dead. 


222  The  Swindler 

But  at  last  a  young  officer  entered  the  seething 
tent,  and  touched  him  on  the  shoulder. 

"Can  you  come  outside  a  moment?  You're 
wanted, "  he  said. 

Durant  turned  from  a  man  who  was  lying  ex- 
hausted and  barely  conscious,  took  up  his  case, 
and  followed  him  out.  He  did  just  glance  at  the 
bed  in  the  corner  as  he  went,  but  he  saw  no  move- 
ment there. 

His  summoner  turned  upon  him  abruptly  as 
they  emerged. 

"Look  here,"  he  said.  "There's  a  water-bag 
quite  full,  waiting  for  those  poor  beggars  in  there. 
Better  send  one  of  the  orderlies  for  it." 

"Water!"  said  Durant  sharply,  as  if  the  news 
were  difficult  to  believe.  Then,  recovering  him- 
self :  "  Tell  the  sentry,  will  you?  I  can  't  spare  an 
orderly." 

The  young  officer  complied,  and  hurried  him  on. 

"The  poor  chap  is  breathing  his  last,"  he  said. 
"You  can't  do  him  any  good,  but  he  wants  you." 

"Who  is  it?"  asked  the  doctor. 

"The  man  who  fetched  the  water — Ford.  He 
was  badly  wounded  when  he  started.  He  crawled 
every  inch  of  the  way  on  his  stomach,  and  back 
again,  dragging  the  bag  with  him.  Heaven  knows 
how  he  did  it!  It's  taken  him  hours." 

4 '  Ford  ?  "  the  doctor  said  incredulously.  "  Ford  ? 
Impossible!  How  did  he  get  away?" 

"Oh,  he  crawled  through  somehow;  Heaven  only 
knows  how!  But  he's  done  now,  poor  beggar — 


The  Example  223 

pegging  out  fast.  We  got  him  into  shelter,  but  we 
couldn't  do  more,  he  was  in  such  agony." 

The  speaker  stopped,  for  Durant  had  broken 
into  a  run.  The  moonlight  showed  him  a  group  of 
men  gathered  about  a  prone  figure.  They  sepa- 
rated and  stood  aside  as  he  reached  them ;  and  he, 
kneeling,  found  in  the  prone  figure  the  man  who 
had  talked  with  him  in  the  afternoon  of  the  friend 
who  had  played  him  false. 

He  was  very  far  gone,  lying  in  a  dreadful  twisted 
heap,  his  head,  with  its  bloodstained  bandages, 
resting  on  his  arm.  Yet  Durant  saw  that  he  still 
lived,  and  tried  with  gentle  hands  to  ease  the 
strain  of  his  position. 

With  a  sharp  gasp,  Ford  opened  his  eyes. 

"  Hullo ! "  he  said.  "  It 's  you,  is  it?  Did  they 
get  the  water?" 

"  They  have  got  it  by  now,"  the  doctor  answered. 

"Ah!"  The  man's  lips  twisted  in  a  difficult 
smile.  He  struggled  bravely  to  keep  the  mortal 
agony  out  of  his  face.  "Gave  you  the  slip  that 
time,"  he  gasped.  "Disobeyed  orders,  too.  But 
it  didn't  matter — except  for  example.  You  must 
tell  them,  eh?  Dying  men  have  privileges." 

"Tell  him  he'd  have  had  the  V.  C.  for  it," 
whispered  the  officer  in  command,  over  the 
doctor 's  shoulder. 

Durant  complied,  and  caught  the  quick  gleam 
that  shot  up  in  the  dying  eyes  at  his  words. 

"  The  gods  were  always  behind  time — with  me, " 
came  the  husky  whisper.  "I  used  to  think  I'd 


224  The  Swindler 

scale  Olympus,  but — they  kicked  me  down.     If — 

if  there 's  any  water  to  spare,  when  it 's  gone  round, 
j j »» 

He  broke  off  with  a  rending  cough.  Some  one 
put  a  tin  cup  into  the  doctor's  hand,  and  he  held  it 
to  the  parched  lips.  Ford  drank  in  great  gulps, 
and,  as  he  drank,  the  worst  agony  passed.  His 
limbs  relaxed  after  the  draught,  and  he  lay  quite 
still,  his  face  to  the  sky. 

After  the  passage  of  minutes  he  spoke  again 
suddenly.  His  voice  was  no  longer  husky,  but 
clear  and  strong.  His  eyes  were  the  eyes  of  a  man 
who  sees  a  vision. 

"Jove!"  he  said.  "What  a  princely  gathering 
to  see  me  carry  out  my  bat!  Don't  grin,  you 
fellows.  I  know  it  was  a  fluke — a  dashed  fine 
fluke,  too.  But  it's  what  I  always  meant,  after 
all.  There's  good  old  Monty,  yelling  himself 
hoarse  in  the  pavilion.  And  his  girl — waving. 
Sweet  girl,  too — the  best  in  the  world.  I  might 
cut  him  out  there.  But  I  won't,  I  won't!  I'm 
not  such  a  hound  as  that,  though  she's  the 
only  woman  in  the  world,  bless  her,  bless 
her!" 

He  stopped.  Durant  was  bending  over  him, 
listening  eagerly,  as  one  might  listen  to  the  voice  of 
an  old,  familiar  friend,  heard  again  after  many 
years. 

He  did  not  speak.  He  seemed  afraid  to  dispel 
the  other's  dream.  But  after  a  moment,  the  man 
in  his  arms  made  a  sudden,  impulsive  movement 


The  Example  225 

towards  him.  It  was  almost  like  a  gesture  of 
affection.  And  their  eyes  met. 

There  followed  a  brief  silence  that  had  in  it 
something  of  strain.  Then  Ford  uttered  a  shaky 
laugh.  The  vision  had  passed. 

"So — you  see — he  had  to  die — anyhow,"  he 
said.  "My  love  to — your  wife,  dear  old  Monty! 
Tell  her — I  'm — awfully — pleased ! " 

His  voice  ceased,  yet  for  a  moment  his  lips  still 
seemed  to  form  words. 

Durant  stooped  lower  over  him,  and  spoke  at 
last  with  a  sort  of  urgent  tenderness. 

"Leo!"  he  said.     "Leo,  old  chap!" 

But  there  came  no  answer  save  a  faint,  still 
smile.  The  man  he  called  had  passed  beyond  his 
reach. 


Relief  came  to  the  beleaguered  force  at  day- 
break, and  the  worst  incident  of  the  campaign 
ended  without  disaster.  A  casualty  list,  published 
in  the  London  papers  a  few  days  later,  contained 
an  announcement,  which  concerned  nobody  who 
read  it,  to  the  effect  that  Private  Ford,  of  a  West 
African  Regiment,  had  succumbed  to  his  wounds. 

is 


The  Friend  Who  Stood  By 

ND  you  will  come  back,  Jim?  Promise! 
Promise!" 

" Of  course,  darling — of  course!  Tnere!  Don't 
cry!  Can't  you  see  it's  a  chance  in  a  thousand? 
I've  never  had  such  a  chance  before. " 

The  sound  of  a  woman's  low  sobbing  was  audible 
in  the  silence  that  followed;  and  a  man  who  was 
leaning  on  the  sea-wall  above,  started  and  peered 
downwards. 

He  could  dimly  discern  two  figures  standing  in 
the  shadow  of  a  great  breakwater  below  him. 
More  than  that  he  could  not  disting  lish,  for  it  was 
a  dark  night;  but  he  knew  that  the  man's  arms 
were  about  the  girl,  and  that  her  face  was  hidden 
against  him. 

Realising  himself  to  be  an  intruder,  he  stood  up 
and  began  to  walk  away. 

He  had  not  gone  a  dozen  yards  before  the  sound 
of  flying  feet  caught  his  attention,  and  he  turned 
his  head.  A  woman's  light  figure  was  running 
behind  him  along  the  deserted  parade.  He  waited 
for  her  under  a  gas-lamp. 

She  overtook  him  and  fled  past  him  without  a 
226 


The  Friend  Who  Stood  By       227 

pause.     He  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  pale  face  and 
fair  hair  in  wild  disorder. 

Then  she  was  gone  again  into  the  night,  running 
swiftly.  The  darkness  closed  about  her,  and  hid 
her  from  view. 

The  man  on  the  parade  paused  for  several 
seconds,  then  walked  back  to  his  original  resting- 
place  by  the  sea-wall. 

The  band  on  the  pier  was  playing  a  jaunty 
selection  from  a  comic  opera.  It  came  in  gusts  of 
gaiety.  The  wash  of  the  sea,  as  it  crept  up  the 
beach,  was  very  mysterious  and  remote. 

Below,  on  the  piled  shingle,  a  man  stood  alone, 
staring  out  over  the  darkness,  motionless  and 
absorbed. 

The  watcher  above  him  struck  a  match  at  length 
and  kindled  a  cigarette.  His  face  was  lit  up  during 
the  operation.  It  was  the  face  of  a  man  who  had 
seen  a  good  deal  of  the  world  and  had  not  found 
the  experience  particularly  refreshing.  Yet,  as  he 
looked  down  upon  the  silent  figure  below  him, 
there  was  more  of  compassion  than  cynicism  in  his 
eyes.  There  was  a  glint  of  humour  also,  like  the 
shrewd  half -melancholy  humour  of  a  monkey  that 
possesses  the  wisdom  of  all  the  ages,  and  can  im- 
part none  of  it. 

Suddenly  there  was  a  movement  on  the  shingle. 
The  lonely  figure  had  turned  and  flung  itself  face 
downwards  among  the  tumbling  stones.  The 
abandonment  of  the  action  was  very  young,  and 
perhaps  it  was  that  very  fact  that  made  it  so  inde- 


228  The  Swindler 

scribably  pathetic.  To  Lester  Cheveril,  leaning  on 
the  sea-wall,  it  appealed  as  strongly  as  the  crying 
of  a  child.  He  glanced  over  his  shoulder.  The 
place  was  deserted.  Then  he  deliberately  dropped 
his  cigarette-case  over  the  wall  and  exclaimed: 
"Comoundit!" 

The  prone  figure  on  the  shingle  rolled  over  and 
sat  up. 

"Hullo!"  said  Cheveril. 

There  was  a  distinct  pause  before  a  voice  replied : 
"Hullo!  What's  the  matter?" 

"I've  dropped  my  cigarette-case, "  said  Cheveril. 
"Beastly  careless  of  me!" 

Again  there  was  a  pause.  Then  the  man  below 
him  stumbled  to  his  feet. 

"I've  got  a  match,"  he  said.  "I'll  see  if  I  can 
find  it." 

"  Don't  trouble, "  said  Cheveril  politely.  "  The 
steps  are  close  by." 

He  walked  away  at  an  easy  pace  and  descended 
to  the  beach.  The  flicker  of  a  match  guided 
him  to  the  searcher.  As  he  drew  near,  the  light 
went  out,  and  the  young  man  turned  to  meet 
him. 

"Here  it  is,"  he  said  gruffly. 

"Many  thanks!"  said  Cheveril.  "It's  so  con- 
foundedly dark  to-night.  I  scarcely  expected  to 
see  it  again." 

The  other  muttered  an  acknowledgment,  and 
stood  prepared  to  depart. 

Cheveril,  however,  paused  in  a  conversational 


The  Friend  Who  Stood  By       229 

attitude.  He  had  not  risked  his  property  for 
nothing. 

"A  pretty  little  place,  this,"  he  said.  "I  sup- 
pose you  are  a  visitor  here  like  myself?" 

"I'm  leaving  to-morrow,"  was  the  somewhat 
grudging  rejoinder. 

"I  only  came  this  afternoon,"  said  Cheveril. 
"Is  there  anything  to  see  here?" 

"There's  the  sea  and  the  lighthouse,"  his  com- 
panion told  him  curtly — "nothing  else." 

Cheveril  smiled  faintly  to  himself  in  the  dark- 
ness. 

"Try  one  of  these  cigarettes,"  he  said  sociably. 
"I  don't  enjoy  smoking  alone." 

He  was  aware,  as  his  unknown  friend  accepted 
the  offer,  that  he  would  have  infinitely  preferred 
to  refuse. 

"Been  here  long?"  he  asked  him,  as  they 
plunged  through  the  shingle  towards  the  sand. 

"I've  lived  here  nearly  all  my  life,"  was  the 
reply.  And,  after  a  moment,  as  if  the  confidence 
would  not  be  repressed:  "I'm  leaving  now — for 
good." 

"Ah!"  said  Cheveril  sympathetically.  "It's 
pretty  beastly  when  you  come  to  turn  out.  I've 
done  it,  and  I  know." 

"It's  infernal,"  said  the  other  gloomily,  and  re- 
lapsed into  silence. 

"Going  abroad?"  Cheveril  ventured  presently. 

"Yes.  Going  to  the  other  side  of  the  world." 
Surliness  had  given  place  to  depression  in  the  boy's 


230  The  Swindler 

voice.  Sympathy,  albeit  from  an  unknown  quar- 
ter, moved  him  to  confidence.  "But  it  isn't  that 
I  mind,"  he  said,  a  moment  later.  "I  should  be 
ready  enough  to  clear  out  if  it  weren't  for — some 
one  else!" 

"A  woman,  I  suppose?"  Cheveril  said. 

He  was  aware  that  his  companion  glanced  at 
him  sharply  through  the  gloom,  and  knew  that  he 
was  momentarily  suspected  of  eavesdropping. 

Then,  with  impulsive  candour,  the  answer  came : 

"Yes;  the  girl  I'm  engaged  to.  She  has  got  to 
stay  behind  and  marry — some  one  else." 

CheveriTs  teeth  closed  silently  upon  his 
lower  lip.  This,  also,  was  one  of  the  things  he 
knew. 

"You  can't  trust  her,  then?"  he  said,  after  a 
pause. 

"Oh,  she  cares  for  me — of  course!"  the  boy 
answered.  "But  there  isn't  a  chance  for  us. 
They  are  all  dead  against  me,  and  the  other 
fellow  will  be  on  the  spot.  He  hasn't  asked  her 
yet,  but  he  means  to.  And  her  people  will  simply 
force  her  to  accept  him  when  he  does.  Of  course 
they  will!  He  is  Cheveril,  the  millionaire.  You 
must  have  heard  of  him.  Every  one  has. " 

"I  know  him  well,"  said  Cheveril. 

"So  do  I — by  sight,"  the  boy  plunged  on  reck- 
lessly— "an  undersized  little  animal  with  a  squint." 

"  I  didn't  know  he  squinted, "  Cheveril  remarked 
into  the  darkness.  "But,  anyhow,  they  can't 
make  her  marry  against  her  will." 


The  Friend  Who  Stood  By       231 

"Can't  they?"  returned  the  other  fiercely.  "I 
don't  know  what  you  call  it,  then.  They  can 
make  her  life  so  positively  unbearable  that  she 
will  have  to  give  in,  if  it  is  only  to  get  away  from 
them.  It's  perfectly  fiendish;  but  they  will  do  it. 
I  know  they  will  do  it.  She  hasn't  a  single  friend 
to  stand  by  her." 

"Except  you,"  said  Cheveril. 

They  had  nearly  reached  the  water.  The  rush 
and  splash  of  the  waves  held  something  solemn  in 
their  harmonies,  like  the  chords  of  a  splendid 
symphony.  Cheveril  heard  the  quick,  indignant 
voice  at  his  side  like  a  cry  of  unrest  breaking 
through. 

"What  can  I  do?"  it  said.  "I  have  never  had 
a  chance  till  now.  I  have  just  had  a  berth  in 
India  offered  to  me;  but  I  can't  possibly  hope 
to  support  a  wife  for  two  years  at  least.  And 
meanwhile — meanwhile ' ' 

It  stopped  there;  and  a  long  wave  broke  with 
a  roar,  and  rushed  up  in  gleaming  foam  almost  to 
their  feet.  The  younger  man  stepped  back;  but 
Cheveril  remained  motionless,  his  face  to  the 
swirling  water. 

Quite  suddenly  at  length  he  turned,  as  a  man 
whose  mind  is  made  up,  and  began  to  walk  back  to 
the  dimly  lighted  parade.  He  marched  straight  up 
the  shingle,  as  if  with  a  definite  purpose  in  view, 
and  mounted  the  rickety  iron  ladder  to  the  pave- 
ment. 

His  companion  followed,  too  absorbed  by  his 


232  The  Swindler 

trouble  to  feel  any  curiosity  regarding  the  stranger 
to  whom  he  had  poured  it  out. 

Under  a  flaring  gas-lamp,  Cheveril  stood  still. 

"Do  you  mind  telling  me  your  name?"  he  said 
abruptly. 

That  roused  the  boy  slightly.  "My  name  is 
Willowby,"  he  answered — "James  Willowby." 

He  looked  at  Cheveril  with  a  dawning  wonder, 
and  the  latter  uttered  a  short,  grim  laugh.  The 
light  streamed  full  upon  his  face. 

"You  know  me  well,  don't  you,"  he  said,  "by 
sight?" 

Young  Willowby  gave  a  great  start  and  turned 
crimson.  He  offered  neither  apology  nor  excuse. 

"I  like  you  for  that,"  Cheveril  said,  after  a 
moment.  "Can  you  bring  yourself  to  shake 
hands?" 

There  was  unmistakable  friendliness  in  his  tone, 
and  Willowby  responded  to  it  promptly.  He  was 
a  sportsman  at  heart,  however  he  might  rail  at 
circumstance. 

As  their  hands  met,  he  looked  up  with  a  queer, 
mirthless  smile. 

"  I  hope  you  are  going  to  be  good  to  her, "  he  said. 

"  I  am  going  to  be  good  to  you  both, "  said  Lester 
Cheveril  quietly. 

In  the  silence  that  followed  his  words,  the  band 
on  the  pier  became  audible  on  a  sudden  gust  of 
wind.  It  was  gaily  jigging  out  the  tune  of 
"The  Girl  I  Left  Behind  Me." 


The  Friend  Who  Stood  By      233 

"What  a  secluded  corner,  Miss  Harford!  May 
I  join  you?" 

Evelyn  Harford  looked  up  with  a  start  of  dis- 
may. He  was  the  last  person  in  the  world  with 
whom  she  desired  a  tete-&-t£te;  but  he  was  dining 
at  her  father's  house,  and  she  could  not  well  refuse. 
Reluctantly  she  laid  aside  the  paper  on  her  knee. 

"I  thought  you  were  playing  bridge,"  she  said, 
in  a  chilly  tone. 

"I  cried  off,"  said  Cheveril. 

He  stood  looking  down  at  her  with  shrewd, 
kindly  eyes.  But  the  girl  was  too  intent  upon 
making  her  escape  to  notice  his  expression. 

"Won't  you  go  to  the  billiard-room?"  she  said. 
"They  are  playing  pool." 

He  shook  his  head. 

"  I  came  here  expressly  to  talk  to  you, "  he  said. 

"Oh!  "said  Evelyn. 

She  leaned  back  in  her  chair,  and  tried  to  appear 
at  her  ease;  but  her  heart  was  thumping  tumul- 
tuously.  The  man  was  going  to  propose,  she 
knew — she  knew;  and  she  was  not  ready  for  him. 
She  felt  that  she  would  break  down  ignominiously 
if  he  pressed  his  suit  just  then. 

Cheveril,  however,  seemed  in  no  hurry.  He  sat 
down  facing  her,  and  there  followed  a  pause, 
during  which  she  felt  that  he  was  studying  her 
attentively. 

Growing  desperate  at  length,  she  looked  him 
in  the  face,  and  spoke. 

"I  am  not  a  very  lively  companion  to-night, 


234  The  Swindler 

Mr.  Cheveril,"  she  said.  "That  is  why  I  came 
away  from  the  rest." 

There  was  more  of  appeal  in  her  voice  than  she 
intended ;  and,  realising  it,  she  coloured  deeply,  and 
looked  away  again.  He  was  just  the  sort  of  man 
to  avail  himself  of  a  moment's  weakness,  she  told 
herself,  with  rising  agitation.  Those  shrewd  eyes 
of  his  missed  nothing. 

But  Cheveril  gave  no  sign  of  having  observed 
her  distress.  He  maintained  his  silence  for  some 
seconds  longer.  Then,  somewhat  abruptly,  he 
broke  it. 

"I  didn't  follow  you  in  order  to  be  amused, 
Miss  Harford, "  he  said.  "The  fact  is,  I  have  a 
confession  to  make  to  you,  and  a  favour  to  ask. 
And  I  want  you  to  be  good  enough  to  hear  me  out 
before  you  try  to  answer.  May  I  count  on  this?  " 

The  dry  query  did  more  to  quiet  her  pertur- 
bation than  any  solicitude.  She  was  quite  con- 
vinced that  he  meant  to  propose  to  her,  but  his 
absence  of  ardour  was  an  immense  relief.  If  he 
would  only  be  businesslike  and  not  sentimental, 
she  felt  that  she  could  bear  it. 

"Yes,  I  will  listen,"  she  said,  facing  him  with 
more  self-possession  than  she  had  been  able  to 
muster  till  that  moment.  "  But  I  shall  want  a  fair 
hearing,  too — afterwards." 

A  faint  smile  nickered  across  Cheveril's  face. 

"  I  shall  want  to  listen  to  you, "  he  said.  "  The 
confession  is  this:  Last  night  I  went  down  to  the 
parade  to  smoke.  It  was  very  dark.  I  don't 


The  Friend  Who  Stood  By       235 

know  exactly  what  attracted  me.  I  came  upon 
two  people  saying  good-bye  on  the  beach.  One  of 
them — a  woman — was  crying. " 

He  paused  momentarily.  The  girl's  face  had 
frozen  into  set  lines  of  composure.  It  looked  like 
a  marble  mask.  Her  eyes  met  his  with  an  assump- 
tion of  indifference  that  scarcely  veiled  the  desper- 
ate defiance  behind. 

"When  does  the  confession  begin?"  she  asked 
him,  with  a  faint  laugh  that  sounded  tragic  in  spite 
of  her. 

He  leaned  forward,  scrutinising  her  with  a  wis- 
dom that  seemed  to  pierce  every  barrier  of  con- 
ventionality and  search  her  very  soul. 

"  It  begins  now, "  he  said.  "  She  came  up  on  to 
the  parade  immediately  after,  and  I  waited  under 
a  lamp  to  get  a  glimpse  of  her.  I  saw  her  face, 
Miss  Harford.  I  knew  her  instantly."  The 
girl's  eyes  flickered  a  little,  and  she  bit  her  lip. 
She  was  about  to  speak,  but  he  stopped  her  with 
sudden  authority.  "No,  don't  answer!"  he  said. 
"Hear  me  out.  I  waited  till  she  was  gone,  and 
then  I  joined  the  young  fellow  on  the  beach.  He 
was  in  the  mood  for  a  sympathetic  listener,  and  I 
drew  him  out.  He  told  me  practically  everything 
— how  he  himself  was  going  to  India  and  had  to 
leave  the  girl  behind,  how  her  people  disapproved 
of  him,  and  how  she  was  being  worked  upon  by 
means  little  short  of  persecution  to  induce  her  to 
marry  an  outsider  on  the  wrong  side  of  forty,  with 
nothing  to  recommend  him  but  the  size  of  his 


236  The  Swindler 

banking  account.  He  added  that  she  had  not  a 
single  friend  to  stand  by  and  make  things  easier 
for  her.  It  was  that,  Miss  Harford,  that  decided 
me  to  take  this  step.  I  can't  see  a  woman  driven 
against  her  will ;  anything  in  the  world  sooner  than 
that.  And  here  comes  my  request.  You  want  a 
friend  to  help  you.  Let  me  be  that  friend.  There 
is  a  way  out  of  this  difficulty  if  you  will  but  take  it. 
Since  I  got  you  into  it,  it  is  only  fair  that  I  should 
be  the  one  to  help  you  out.  This  is  not  a  proposal 
of  marriage,  though  it  may  sound  like  one. " 

He  ended  with  a  smile  that  was  perfectly  friendly 
and  kind. 

The  rigid  look  had  completely  passed  from  the 
girl's  face.  She  was  listening  with  a  curious  blend 
of  eagerness  and  reluctance.  Her  cheeks  were 
burning ;  her  eyes  like  stars. 

"I  am  so  thankful  to  hear  you  say  that,"  she 
said,  drawing  a  deep  breath. 

"Shall  I  go  on?"  said  Cheveril. 

She  hesitated;  and  very  quietly  he  held  out  his 
hand  to  her. 

"In  the  capacity  of  a  friend,"  he  said 
gravely. 

And  Evelyn  Harford  put  her  hand  into  his  with 
the  confidence  of  a  child.  It  was  strange  to  feel 
her  prejudice  against  this  man  evaporate  at  a 
touch.  It  made  her  oddly  unsure  of  herself.  He 
was  the  last  person  in  the  world  to  whom  she  would 
have  voluntarily  turned  for  help. 

"Don't  be  startled  by  what  I  am  going  to  say, " 


The  Friend  Who  Stood  By       237 

Cheveril  said.  "  It  may  strike  you  as  an  eccentric 
suggestion,  but  there  is  nothing  in  it  to  alarm  you. 
Young  Willowby  tells  me  that  it  will  take  him  two 
years  to  make  a  home  for  you,  and  meanwhile 
your  life  is  to  be  made  a  martyrdom  on  my  account. 
Will  you  put  your  freedom  in  my  hands  for  that 
two  years?  In  other  words,  will  you  consider 
yourself  engaged  to  me  for  just  so  long  as  his 
absence  lasts  ?  It  will  save  you  endless  trouble  and 
discomfort,  and  harm  no  one.  When  Willowby 
comes  back,  I  shall  hand  you  over  to  him,  and  your 
happiness  will  be  secured.  Think  it  over,  and 
don't  be  scared.  You  will  find  me  quite  easy  to 
manage.  In  any  case,  I  am  a  friend  you  can  trust, 
remember,  even  though  I  have  got  the  face  of  a 
baboon." 

So,  with  absolute  quietness,  he  made  his  pro- 
posal; and  Evelyn,  amazed  and  incredulous,  heard 
him  out  in  silence.  At  his  last  words  she  gave  a 
quick  laugh  that  sounded  almost  hysterical. 

"Oh,  don't,"  she  said — "don't!  You  make  me 
feel  so  ashamed." 

Cheveril's  face  was  suddenly  quizzical. 

"There  is  nothing  to  be  ashamed  of,"  he  said. 
"I  take  all  the  responsibility,  and  it  would  give  me 
very  great  pleasure  to  help  you. " 

"But  I  couldn't  do  such  a  thing!"  she  protested. 
"I  couldn't!" 

"Listen!"  said  Cheveril.  "I  am  off  for  a 
yachting  trip  in  the  Pacific  in  a  week,  and  I 
give  you  my  word  of  honour  not  to  return  for 


238  The  Swindler 

nine  months,  at  least.  Will  that  make  it  easier  for 
you?" 

"I  am  not  thinking  of  myself,"  she  told  him, 
with  vehemence.  "  Of  course,  it  would  make  every- 
thing right  for  me,  so  long  as  Jim  knew.  But  I 
must  think  of  you,  too.  I  must " 

"You  needn't,"  Cheveril  said  gently;  "you 
needn't.  I  have  asked  to  be  allowed  to  stand  by 
you,  to  have  the  great  privilege  of  calling  myself 
your  friend  in  need.  I  am  romantic  enough  to  like 
to  see  a  love  affair  go  the  right  way.  It  is  for  my 
pleasure,  if  you  care  to  regard  it  from  that  point 
of  view."  He  paused,  and  into  his  eyes  there 
came  a  queer,  watchful  expression — the  look  of  a 
man  who  hazards  much,  yet  holds  himself  in  check. 
Then  he  smiled  at  her  with  baffling  humour. 

"Don't  refuse  me  my  opportunity,  Miss  Har- 
ford,"  he  said.  "I  know  I  am  eccentric,  but  I 
assure  you  I  can  be  a  staunch  friend  to  those  I 
like." 

Evelyn  had  risen,  and  as  he  ended  he  also  got  to 
his  feet.  He  knew  that  she  was  studying  him  with 
all  her  woman's  keenness  of  perception.  But  the 
game  was  in  his  hands,  and  he  realised  it.  He  was 
no  longer  afraid  of  the  issue. 

"You  offer  me  this  out  of  friendship?"  she  said 
at  last. 

He  watched  her  fingers  nervously  playing  with  a 
bracelet  on  her  wrist. 

"Exactly,  "he  said. 

Her  eyes  met  his  resolutely. 


The  Friend  Who  Stood  By       239 

"Mr.  Cheveril, "  she  said  (and  though  she  spoke 
quietly,  it  was  with  an  effort),  "I  want  you,  please, 
to  answer  just  one  question.  You  have  been 
shown  all  the  cards;  but  there  must — there  shall 
be — fair  play,  in  spite  of  it. " 

Her  voice  rang  a  little.  The  bracelet  suddenly 
slipped  from  her  hand  and  fell  to  the  floor.  Chev- 
eril stooped  and  picked  it  up.  He  held  it  as  he 
made  reply. 

"Yes, "  he  said,  "I  like  fair  play,  too. " 

"Then  you  will  tell  me  the  truth?"  she  said, 
holding  out  her  hand  for  her  property.  "I  want 
to  know  if — if  you  were  really  going  to  ask  me  to 
marry  you  before  this  happened?" 

He  looked  at  her  with  raised  eyebrows.  Then 
he  took  the  extended  hand. 

"Of  course  I  was!"  he  said  simply.  She  drew 
back  a  little,  but  Cheveril  showed  no  discomfiture. 
"You  see,  I'm  getting  on  in  life,"  he  said,  in  a 
patriarchal  tone.  "No  doubt  it  was  rank  pre- 
sumption on  my  part  to  imagine  myself  in  any  way 
suited  to  you;  but  I  thought  it  would  be  nice  to 
have  a  young  wife  to  look  after  me.  And  you 
know  the  proverb  about  'an  old  man's  darling.' 
I  believe  I  rather  counted  on  that." 

Again  he  looked  quizzical;  but  the  girl  was  not 
satisfied. 

"That's  ridiculous!"  she  said.  "You  talk  as 
if  you  were  fifty  years  older  than  you  are.  It  may 
be  funny,  but  it  isn't  strictly  honest. " 

Cheveril  laughed. 


240  The  Swindler 

"I  know  what  you  mean,"  he  said.  "But 
really  I'm  not  being  funny.  And  I  am  telling  you 
the  simple  truth  when  I  say  that  all  sentimental 
nonsense  was  knocked  out  of  me  long  ago,  when 
the  girl  I  cared  for  ran  away  with  a  good-looking 
beast  in  the  Army.  Also,  I  am  quite  honest  when 
I  assure  you  that  I  would  rather  be  your  trusted 
friend  and  accomplice  than  your  rejected  suitor. 
By  Jove,  I  seem  to  be  asking  a  good  deal  of  you!" 

"No,  don't  laugh,"  she  said  quickly,  almost  as 
if  something  in  his  careless  speech  had  pained  her. 
"We  must  look  at  the  matter  from  every  stand- 
point before — before  we  take  any  action.  Suppose 
you  really  did  want  to  marry  some  one?  Suppose 
you  fell  in  love  again?  What  then?" 

"What  then?"  said  Cheveril.  And,  though  he 
was  obligingly  serious,  she  felt  that  somehow, 
somewhere,  he  was  tricking  her.  "I  should  have 
to  ask  you  to  release  me  in  that  event.  But  I  don't 
think  it's  very  likely  that  will  happen.  I'm  not  so 
impressionable  as  I  was." 

She  looked  at  him  doubtfully.  Obviously  he 
was  not  in  love  with  her,  yet  she  was  uneasy.  She 
had  a  curious  sense  of  loss,  of  disappointment, 
which  even  Jim's  departure  had  not  created  in  her. 

"I  don't  feel  that  I  am  doing  right,"  she  said 
finally. 

"I  am  quite  unscrupulous,"  said  Cheveril 
lightly.  "Moreover,  there  is  no  harm  to  any  one 
in  the  transaction.  Your  life  is  your  own.  No 
one  else  has  the  right  to  order  it  for  you.  It  seems 


The  Friend  Who  Stood  By       241 

to  me  that  in  this  matter  you  need  to  consider 
yourself  alone." 

"And  you,"  she  said,  in  a  troubled  tone. 

He  surprised  her  an  instant  later  by  thrusting  a 
friendly  hand  through  her  arm. 

"Come!"  he  said,  smiling  down  at  her.  "Let 
us  go  and  announce  the  good  news!" 

And  so  she  yielded  to  him,  and  went. 

The  news  of  Evelyn  Harford's  engagement  to 
Lester  Cheveril  was  no  great  surprise  to  any  one. 
It  leaked  out  through  private  sources,  it  being 
understood  that  no  public  announcement  was  to 
be  made  till  the  marriage  should  be  imminent. 
And  as  Cheveril  had  departed  in  his  yacht  to  the 
Pacific  very  shortly  after  his  proposal,  there  seemed 
small  likelihood  of  the  union  taking  place  that 
year. 

Meanwhile,  her  long  battle  over,  Evelyn  pre- 
pared herself  to  enjoy  her  hard-earned  peace. 
Her  father  no  longer  poured  hurricanes  of  wrath 
upon  her  for  her  obduracy.  Her  mother's  bitter 
reproaches  had  wholly  ceased.  The  home  atmo- 
sphere had  become  suddenly  calm  and  sunny. 
The  eldest  daughter  of  the  house  had  done  her 
obvious  duty,  and  the  family  was  no  longer  shaken 
and  upset  by  internal  tumult. 

But  the  peace  was  only  on  the  surface  so  far  as 
Evelyn  was  concerned.  Privately,  she  was  less  at 
peace  than  she  had  ever  been,  and  that  not  on  her 
own  account  or  on  Jim  Willowby's.  Every  letter 

16 


242  The  Swindler 

she  received  from  the  man  who  had  taken  her  part 
against  himself  stirred  afresh  in  her  a  keen  self- 
reproach  and  sense  of  shame.  He  wrote  to  her 
from  every  port  he  touched,  brief,  friendly  epistles 
that  she  might  have  shown  to  all  the  world,  but 
which  she  locked  away  secretly,  and  read  only  in 
solitude.  Her  letters  to  him  were  even  briefer, 
and  she  never  guessed  how  Cheveril  cherished 
those  scanty  favours. 

So  through  all  that  summer  they  kept  up  the 
farce.  In  the  autumn  Evelyn  went  to  pay  a  round 
of  visits  at  various  country-houses,  and  it  was 
while  staying  from  home  that  a  letter  from  Jim 
Willowby  reached  her. 

He  wrote  in  apparently  excellent  spirits.  He 
had  had  an  extraordinary  piece  of  luck,  he  said, 
and  had  been  offered  a  very  good  post  in  Burmah. 
If  she  would  consent  to  go  out  to  him,  they  could 
be  married  at  once. 

That  letter  Evelyn  read  during  a  solitary  ramble 
over  a  wide  Yorkshire  moor,  and  when  she  looked 
up  from  the  boy's  signature  her  expression  was 
hunted,  even  tragic. 

Jim  had  carefully  considered  ways  and  means. 
The  thing  she  had  longed  for  was  within  her  grasp. 
All  she  had  ever  asked  for  herself  was  flung  to  her 
without  stint. 

But — what  had  happened  to  her?  she  wondered 
vaguely — she  realised  it  all  fully,  completely,  yet 
with  no  thrill  of  gladness.  Something  subtly 
potent  seemed  wound  about  her  heart,  holding  her 


The  Friend  Who  Stood  By       243 

back;  something  that  was  stronger  far  than  the 
thought  of  Jim  was  calling  to  her,  crying  aloud 
across  the  barren  deserts  of  her  soul.  And  in  that 
moment  she  knew  that  her  marriage  with  Jim  had 
become  a  final  impossibility,  and  that  it  was 
imperative  upon  her  to  write  at  once  and  tell  him 
so. 

She  walked  miles  that  day,  and  returned  at 
length  utterly  wearied  in  body  and  mind.  She  was 
facing  the  hardest  problem  of  her  life. 

Not  till  after  midnight  was  her  letter  to  Jim 
finished,  and  even  then  she  could  not  rest.  Had 
she  utterly  ruined  the  boy's  life?  she  wondered, 
as  she  sealed  and  directed  her  crude,  piteous  appeal 
for  freedom. 

When  the  morning  light  came  grey  through  her 
window  she  was  still  poring  above  a  blank  sheet  of 
notepaper. 

This  eventually  carried  but  one  sentence,  ad- 
dressed to  the  friend  who  had  stood  by  her  in 
trouble;  and  later  in  the  day  she  sent  it  by  cable 
to  the  other  side  of  the  world.  The  message  ran : 
"Please  cancel  engagement. — Evelyn."  His  an- 
swering cable  was  brought  to  her  at  the  dinner- 
table.  Two  words  only — "Delighted. — Lester." 

Out  of  a  mist  of  floating  uncertainty  she  saw  her 
host  bend  towards  her. 

"All  well,  I  trust?"  he  said  kindly. 

And  she  made  a  desperate  effort  to  control  her 
weakness  and  reply  naturally. 

"Oh,  quite,  quite,"  she  said.     "It  is  exactly 


244  The  Swindler 

what  I  expected."  Nevertheless,  she  was  trem- 
bling from  head  to  foot,  as  if  she  had  been  dealt 
a  stunning  blow. 

Had  she  altogether  expected  so  prompt  and 
obliging  a  reply? 


Some  weeks  later,  on  an  afternoon  of  bleak,  early 
spring,  Evelyn  wandered  alone  on  the  shore  where, 
she  had  bidden  Jim  Willowby  farewell.  It  was 
raining,  and  the  sea  was  grey  and  desolate.  The 
tide  was  coming  in  with  a  fierce  roaring  that 
seemed  to  fill  the  whole  world. 

She  had  a  letter  from  Jim  in  her  hand — his 
answer  to  her  appeal  for  freedom;  and  she  had 
sought  the  solitude  of  the  shore  in  which  to  read  it. 

She  took  shelter  from  the  howling  sea-wind 
behind  a  great  boulder  of  rock.  She  dreaded  his 
reproaches  unspeakably.  For  the  past  six  weeks 
she  had  lived  in  dread  of  that  moment.  Her 
fingers  were  shaking  as  she  opened  the  envelope 
that  bore  his  boyish  scrawl. 

An  enclosure  fell  out  before  she  had  withdrawn 
his  letter.  She  caught  it  up  hastily  before  the 
wind  could  take  possession.  It  was  an  un- 
mounted photograph — actually  the  portrait  of  a 
girl. 

Evelyn  stared  at  the  roguish,  laughing  face 
with  a  great  amazement.  Then,  with  a  haste  that 
baffled  its  own  ends,  she  sought  his  letter. 

It  began  with  astounding  jauntiness: 


The  Friend  Who  Stood  By       245 

"DEAR  OLD  EVE, — What  a  pair  of  superhuman 
idiots  we  have  been !  Many  thanks  for  your  sweet 
letter,  which  did  me  no  end  of  good.  I  never 
loved  you  so  much  before,  dear.  Can  you  believe 
it?  I  am  not  surprised  that  you  feel  unequal  to 
the  task  of  keeping  me  in  order  for  the  rest  of  our 
natural  lives.  Will  it  surprise  you  to  know  that  I 
had  my  doubts  on  the  matter  even  when  I  wrote 
to  suggest  it?  Never  mind,  dear  old  girl,  I  under- 
stand. And  may  the  right  man  turn  up  soon  and 
make  you  happy  for  the  rest  of  your  life ! 

"I  am  sending  a  photograph  of  a  girl  who  till 
three  weeks  ago  was  no  more  than  a  friend  to  me, 
but  has  since  become  my  fiancee.  Love  is  a 
wonderful  thing,  Eve.  It  comes  upon  you  so 
suddenly  and  carries  you  away  before  you  have 
time  to  realise  what  has  happened.  At  least  that 
has  been  my  experience.  There  is  no  mistaking 
the  real  thing  when  it  actually  comes  to  you. 

"  I  am  getting  on  awfully  well,  and  like  the  life. 
By  the  way,  it  was  through  your  friend,  Lester 
Cheveril,  that  I  got  this  appointment.  A  jolly 
decent  chap  that!  I  liked  him  from  the  first. 
It  isn't  every  man  who  will  stand  being  told  he 
squints  without  taking  offence.  We  are  hoping  to 
get  married  next  month.  Write — won't  you? — and 
send  me  your  blessing.  Much  love — Yours  ever, 

"JAMES  WILLOWBY. " 

Evelyn  looked  up  from  the  letter  with  a  deep 
breath  of  relief.  It  was  so  amazingly  satisfactory. 


246  The  Swindler 

She  almost  forgot  the  emptiness  of  her  own  life  for 
the  moment  in  her  rejoicing  over  Jim's  happiness. 

There  was  a  little  puddle  of  sea- water  at  her  feet ; 
and  she  climbed  up  to  a  comfortable  perch  on  her 
sheltering  rock  and  turned  her  face  to  the  sea. 
Somehow,  it  did  not  seem  so  desolate  as  it  had 
seemed  five  minutes  before.  This  particular  seat 
was  a  favourite  haunt  of  hers  in  the  summer.  She 
loved  to  watch  the  tide  come  foaming  up,  and  to 
feel  the  salt  spray  in  her  face. 

Five  minutes  later,  a  great  wave  came  hurling  at 
the  rock  on  which  she  sat,  and,  breaking  in  a 
torrent  of  foam,  deluged  her  from  head  to 
foot. 

She  started  up  in  swift  alarm.  The  tide  was 
coming  in  fast — much  faster  than  she  had  antici- 
pated. The  shore  curved  inwards  in  a  deep  bay 
just  there,  and  the  cliffs  rose  sheer  and  unscalable 
from  it  to  a  considerable  height. 

Evelyn  seldom  went  down  to  the  shore  in  the 
winter,  and  she  was  not  familiar  with  its  dangers. 
The  sea  had  seemed  far  enough  out  for  safety  when 
she  had  rounded  the  point  nearest  to  the  town, 
barely  half  an  hour  before.  It  was  with  almost 
incredulous  horror  that  she  saw  that  the  waves 
were  already  breaking  at  the  foot  of  the  cliffs  she 
had  skirted. 

She  turned  with  a  sudden,  awful  fear  at  her 
heart  to  look  towards  the  farther  point.  It  was  a 
full  mile  away,  and  she  saw  instantly  that  she 
could  not  possibly  reach  it  in  time.  The  waves 


The  Friend  Who  Stood  By       247 

were  already  foaming  white  among  the  scattered 
boulders  at  its  base. 

Again  a  great  wave  broke  behind  her  with  a 
sound  like  the  booming  of  a  gun;  and  she  realised 
that  she  would  be  surrounded  in  less  than  thirty 
seconds  if  she  remained  where  she  was.  She 
slipped  and  slid  down  the  side  of  the  rock  with  the 
speed  of  terror,  and  plunged  recklessly  into  a  foot 
of  water  at  the  bottom.  Before  another  wave 
broke  she  was  dashing  and  stumbling  among  the 
rocks  like  a  frenzied  creature  seeking  safety  from 
the  remorseless,  devouring  monster  that  roared 
behind  her. 

The  next  five  minutes  of  her  life  held  for  her  an 
agony  more  terrible  than  anything  she  had  ever 
known.  Sea,  sky,  wind,  and  sudden  pelting  rain 
seemed  leagued  against  her  in  a  monstrous  array 
against  which  she  battled  vainly  with  her  puny 
woman's  strength.  The  horror  of  it  was  like  a 
leaden,  paralysing  weight.  She  fought  and  strug- 
gled because  instinct  compelled  her;  but  at  her 
heart  was  the  awful  knowledge  that  the  sea 
had  claimed  her  and  she  could  not  possibly 
escape. 

She  made  for  the  farther  point  of  the  bay, 
though  she  knew  she  could  not  reach  it  in  time. 
The  loose  shingle  crumbled  about  her  feet;  the 
seaweed  trapped  her  everywhere.  She  fell  a  dozen 
times  in  that  awful  race,  and  each  time  she  rose 
in  agony  and  tore  on.  The  tumult  all  about  her 
was  like  the  laughter  of  fiends.  She  felt  as  if  hell 


248  The  Swindler 

had  opened  its  mouth,  and  she,  poor  soul,  was  its 
easy  prey. 

There  came  a  moment  at  last  when  she  tripped 
and  fell  headlong,  and  could  not  rise  again.  That 
moment  was  the  culmination  of  her  anguish. 
Neither  soul  nor  body  could  endure  more.  Dark- 
ness— a  howling,  unholy  darkness — came  down 
upon  her  in  a  thick  cloud  from  which  there  was  no 
escape.  She  made  a  futile,  convulsive  effort  to 
pray,  and  lost  consciousness  in  the  act. 

Out  of  the  darkness  at  length  she  came. 

The  tumult  was  still  audible,  but  it  was  farther 
away,  less  overwhelming.  She  opened  her  eyes  in 
a  strange,  unnatural  twilight,  and  stared  vaguely 
upwards. 

At  the  same  instant  she  became  aware  of  some 
one  at  her  side,  bending  over  her — a  man  whose 
face,  revealed  to  her  in  the  dim  light,  sent  a  throb 
of  wonder  through  her  heart. 

"You!"  she  said,  speaking  with  a  great  effort. 
"Is  it  really  you?" 

He  was  rubbing  one  of  her  hands  between  his 
own.  He  paused  to  answer. 

"Yes;  it's  really  me, "  he  said.  And  she  fancied 
his  voice  quivered  a  little.  "They  told  me  I 
might  perhaps  find  you  on  the  shore.  Are  you 
better?" 

She  tried  to  sit  up,  and  he  helped  her,  keeping 
his  arm  about  her  shoulders.  She  found  herself 
lying  on  a  ledge  of  rock  high  up  in  the  slanting  wall 


The  Friend  Who  Stood  By      249 

of  a  deep  and  narrow  cave.  She  knew  the  place 
well,  and  had  always  avoided  it  with  instinctive 
aversion.  It  was  horribly  eerie.  The  rocky  walls 
were  wet  with  the  ooze  and  slime  of  the  ages. 
There  was  a  trickle  of  spring-water  along  the 
ridged  floor. 

Evelyn  closed  her  eyes  dizzily.  The  marvel 
of  the  man's  presence  was  still  upon  her,  but  the 
horror  of  death  haunted  her  also.  She  would 
rather  have  been  drowned  outside  on  the  howling 
shore  than  here. 

"The  sea  comes  in  at  high  tide, "  she  murmured 
shakily. 

Lester  Cheveril,  crouching  beside  her,  made 
undaunted  reply. 

"Yes,  I  know,  But  it  won't  touch  us.  Don't 
be  afraid!" 

The  assurance  with  which  he  spoke  struck  her 
very  forcibly;  but  something  held  her  back  from 
questioning  the  grounds  of  his  confidence. 

"How  did  you  get  here?"  she  asked  him  instead. 

"  I  saw  you  from  the  corner  of  the  bay, "  he  said. 
"It  was  before  you  left  your  rock.  I  climbed 
round  the  point  over  the  boulders.  I  thought  at 
the  time  that  there  must  be  some  way  up  the  cliff. 
Then  I  saw  you  start  running,  and  I  knew  you  were 
cut  off.  I  yelled  to  you,  but  I  couldn't  make  you 
hear.  So  I  had  to  give  chase. " 

His  arm  tightened  a  little  about  her. 

"I  am  sorry  you  were  scared,"  he  said.  "Are 
you  feeling  better  now?" 


250  The  Swindler 

She  could  not  understand  him.  He  spoke  with 
such  entire  absence  of  anxiety.  In  spite  of  herself 
her  own  fears  began  to  subside. 

"Yes,  I  am  better,"  she  said.  "But — tell  me 
more.  Why  didn't  you  go  back  when  you  saw 
what  had  happened?" 

"I  couldn't,"  he  said  simply.  "Besides,  even 
if  they  launched  the  lifeboat,  the  chances  were 
dead  against  their  reaching  you.  I  thought  of  a 
rope,  too.  But  that  seemed  equally  risky.  It  was 
a  choice  of  odds.  I  chose  what  looked  the  easiest. ' ' 

"And  carried  me  here?"  she  said. 

The  light,  shining  weirdly  in  upon  his  face, 
showed  her  that  he  was  smiling. 

"I  couldn't  stop  to  consult  you,"  he  said.  "I 
saw  this  hole,  and  I  made  for  it.  I  climbed  up 
with  you  across  my  shoulder." 

"You  are  wonderfully  strong,"  she  said,  in  a 
tone  of  surprise. 

He  laughed  openly. 

"Notwithstanding  my  size,"  he  said.  "Yes; 
I'm  fairly  muscular,  thank  Heaven." 

Evelyn's  mind  was  still  working  round  the 
problem  of  deliverance. 

"  We  shall  have  to  stay  here  for  hours, "  she  said, 
"evenifr-if " 

He  interrupted  her  with  grave  authority. 

"There  is  no  'if,'  Miss  Harford, "  he  said.  "We 
may  have  to  spend  some  hours  here ;  but  it  will  be 
in  safety. " 

"I  don't  see  how  you  can  tell, "  she  ventured  to 


The  Friend  Who  Stood  By      251 

remark,  beginning  to  look  around  her  with  greater 
composure  notwithstanding. 

"Providence  doesn't  play  practical  jokes  of  that 
sort,"  said  Cheveril  quietly.  "Do  you  know  I 
have  come  from  the  other  end  of  the  earth  to  see 
you?" 

She  felt  the  burning  colour  rush  up  to  her 
temples,  yet  she  made  a  determined  effort  to  look 
him  in  the  face.  His  eyes,  keen  and  kindly,  were 
searching  hers,  and  she  found  she  could  not  meet 
them. 

"I — I  don't  know  what  brought  you, "  she  said, 
in  a  very  low  voice. 

She  felt  the  arm  that  supported  her  grow  rigid, 
and  guessed  that  he  was  putting  force  upon  himself 
as  he  made  reply. 

"Let  me  explain,"  he  said.  "You  sent  me  a 
cablegram  which  said,  'Please  cancel  engage- 
ment.' Naturally  that  had  but  one  meaning  for 
me — you  and  Jim  Willowby  had  got  the  better  of 
your  difficulties,  and  were  going  to  be  married. 
In  the  capacity  of  friend,  I  received  the  news  with 
rejoicing.  So  I  cabled  back  'Delighted.'  Soon 
after  that  came  a  letter  from  Jim  to  tell  me  you 
had  thrown  him  over.  Now,  why?" 

She  answered  him  with  her  head  bent : 

"  I  found  that  I  didn't  care  for  him  quite  in  that 
way." 

Cheveril  did  not  speak  for  several  seconds. 
Then,  abruptly,  he  said: 

"There  is  another  fellow  in  the  business." 


252  The  Swindler 

She  made  a  slight  gesture  of  appeal,  and  re- 
mained silent. 

He  leaned  forward  slowly  at  length,  and  laid  his 
hand  upon  both  of  hers. 

"Evelyn,"  he  said  very  gently,  "will  you  tell 
me  his  name?" 

She  shook  her  head  instantly.  Her  lips  were 
quivering,  and  she  bit  them  desperately. 

He  waited,  but  no  word  came.  Outside,  the 
roaring  of  the  sea  was  terrible  and  insistent.  The 
great  sound  sent  a  shudder  through  the  girl.  She 
shrank  closer  to  the  cold  stone. 

He  pulled  off  his  coat  and  wrapped  it  round  her. 
Then,  as  if  she  had  been  a  child,  he  drew  her  gently 
into  his  arms,  and  held  her  so. 

"Tell  me — now,"  he  said  softly. 

But  she  hid  her  face  dumbly.  No  words  would 
come. 

It  seemed  a  long  while  before  he  spoke  again. 

"That  cable  of  yours  was  a  fraud, "  he  said  then. 
"I  was  not — I  am  not — prepared  to  release  you 
from  your  engagement  except  under  the  original 
condition." 

"I  think  you  must,"  she  said  faintly. 

He  sought  for  her  cold  hands  and  thrust  them 
against  his  neck.  And  again  there  was  a  long 
silence,  while  outside  the  sea  raged  fiercely,  and  far 
below  them  in  the  distance  a  white  streak  of  foam 
ran  bubbling  over  the  rocky  floor. 

Soon  the  streak  had  become  a  stream  of  dancing, 
storm-tossed  water.  Evelyn  watched  it  with  wide, 


The  Friend  Who  Stood  By      253 

fascinated  eyes.  But  she  made  no  sign  of  fear. 
She  felt  as  if  he  had,  somehow,  laid  a  quieting  hand 
upon  her  soul. 

Higher  the  water  rose,  and  higher.  The  cave 
was  filled  with  dreadful  sound.  It  was  almost 
dark,  for  dusk  had  fallen.  She  felt  that  but  for 
the  man's  presence  she  would  have  been  wild  with 
fear.  But  his  absolute  confidence  wove  a  spell 
about  her  that  no  terror  could  penetrate.  The 
close  holding  of  his  arms  was  infinitely  comforting 
to  her.  She  knew  with  complete  certainty  that  he 
was  not  afraid. 

"It's  very  dark,"  she  whispered  to  him  once; 
and  he  pressed  her  head  down  upon  his  breast  and 
told  her  not  to  look.  Through  the  tumult  she 
heard  the  strong,  quiet  beating  of  his  heart,  and 
was  ashamed  of  her  own  mortal  fear. 

It  seemed  to  her  that  hours  passed  while  she 
crouched  there,  listening,  as  the  water  rose  and 
rose.  She  caught  the  gleam  of  it  now  and  then, 
and  once  her  face  was  wet  with  spray.  She  clung 
closer  and  closer  to  her  companion,  but  she  kept 
down  her  panic.  She  felt  that  he  expected  it  of 
her,  and  she  would  have  died  there  in  the  dark, 
sooner  than  have  disappointed  him. 

At  last,  after  an  eternity  of  quiet  waiting,  he 
spoke. 

"The  tide  has  turned,"  he  said.  And  his  tone 
carried  conviction  with  it. 

She  raised  her  head  to  look. 

A  dim,  silvery  light  shone  mysteriously  in  re- 


254  The  Swindler 

vealing  the  black  walls  above  them,  the  tossing 
water  below.  It  had  been  within  a  foot  of 
their  resting-place,  but  it  had  dropped  fully  six 
inches. 

Evelyn  felt  a  great  throb  of  relief  pass  through 
her.  Only  then  did  she  fully  realise  how  great  her 
fear  had  been. 

"Is  that  the  moon?"  she  asked  wonderingly. 

"Yes, "  said  Cheveril.  He  spoke  in  a  low  voice, 
even  with  reverence,  she  thought.  "We  shall  be 
out  of  this  in  an  hour.  It  will  light  us  home. " 

"How — wonderful ! "  she  said,  half  involuntarily. 

Cheveril  said  no  more;  but  the  silence  that  fell 
between  them  was  the  silence  of  that  intimacy 
which  only  those  who  have  stood  together  before 
the  great  threshold  of  death  can  know.  Many 
minutes  passed  before  Evelyn  spoke  again,  and 
then  her  words  came  slowly,  with  hesitation. 

"You  knew?"  she  said.  "You  knew  that  we 
were  safe?" 

"Yes,"  he  answered  quietly;  "I  knew.  God 
doesn't  give  with  one  hand  and  take  away  with  the 
other.  Have  you  never  noticed  that?" 

"I  don't  know,"  she  ansvrered  with  a  sharp 
sigh.  "He  has  never  given  me  anything  very 
valuable." 

"Quite  sure?"  said  Cheveril,  and  she  caught 
the  old  quizzical  note  in  his  voice. 

She  did  not  reply.  She  was  trying  to  under- 
stand him  in  the  darkness,  and  she  found  it  a 
difficult  matter. 


The  Friend  Who  Stood  By       255 

There  followed  a  long,  long  silence.  The  roar 
of  the  breaking  seas  had  become  remote  and 
vague. 

But  the  moonlight  was  growing  brighter.  The 
dark  cave  was  no  longer  a  place  of  horror. 

"Shall  we  go?"  Evelyn  suggested  at  last. 

He  peered  downwards. 

"  I  think  we  might, "  he  said.  "  No  doubt  your 
people  will  be  very  anxious  about  you." 

They  climbed  down  with  difficulty,  till  they 
finally  stood  together  on  the  wet  stones. 

And  there  Cheveril  reached  out  a  hand  and 
detained  the  girl  beside  him. 

"That  other  fellow?"  he  said,  in  his  quiet, 
half-humorous  voice.  "You  didn't  tell  me  his 
name." 

"Oh,  please!"  she  said  tremulously. 

He  took  her  hands  gently  into  his,  and  stood 
facing  her.  The  moonlight  was  full  in  his  eyes. 
They  shone  with  a  strange  intensity. 

"Do  you  remember, "  he  said,  "how  I  once  said 
to  you  that  I  was  romantic  enough  to  like  to  see  a 
love  affair  go  the  right  way?" 

She  did  not  answer  him.  She  was  trembling  in 
his  hold. 

He  waited  for  a  few  seconds;  then  spoke,  still 
kindly,  but  with  a  force  that  in  a  measure  com- 
pelled her: 

"That  is  why  I  want  you  to  tell  me  his  name." 

She  turned  her  face  aside. 

"I — I  can't!"  she  said  piteously. 


256  The  Swindler 

"Then  I  hold  you  to  your  engagement,"  said 
Lester  Cheveril,  with  quiet  determination. 

Her  hands  leapt  in  his.  She  threw  him  a  quick 
uncertain  glance. 

"You  can't  mean  that!"  she  said. 

"I  do  mean  it,"  he  rejoined  resolutely. 

"  But— but—  "  she  faltered.  "  You  don't  really 
want  to  marry  me?  You  can't!" 

He  looked  grimly  at  her  for  a  moment.  Then 
abruptly  he  broke  into  a  laugh  that  rang  and 
echoed  exultantly  in  the  deep  shadows  behind 
them. 

"I  want  it  more  than  anything  else  on  earth," 
he  said.  "Does  that  satisfy  you?" 

His  face  was  close  to  hers,  but  she  felt  no  desire 
to  escape.  That  laugh  of  his  was  still  ringing  like 
sweetest  music  through  her  soul. 

He  took  her  shoulders  between  his  hands,  search- 
ing her  face  closely. 

"And  now,"  he  said — "now  tell  me  his  name!" 

Yet  a  moment  longer  she  withstood  him.  Then 
she  yielded,  and  went  into  his  arms,  laughing  also 
— a  broken,  tearful  laugh. 

"His  name  is — Lester  Cheveril, "  she  whispered. 
"But  I — I  can't  think  how  you  guessed." 

He  answered  her  as  he  turned  her  face  upwards 
to  meet  his  own. 

"The  friend  who  stands  by  sees  many  things," 
he  said  wisely.  "And  Love  is  not  always  blind. " 

"But  you — you  weren't  in  love, "  she  protested. 
"Not  when " 


The  Friend  Who  Stood  By      257 

He  interrupted  her  instantly  and  convincingly. 
"I  have  always  loved  you, "  he  said. 
And  she  believed  him,  because  her  own  heart 
told  her  that  he  had  spoken  the  truth. 

17 


The  Right  Man 


"  LJE  hasn't  proposed,  then?" 

A  A  "No;  he  hasn't."  A  pause;  then,  reluct- 
antly: "I  haven't  given  him  the  opportunity." 

"Violet!    Do  you  want  to  starve?" 

The  speaker  turned  in  his  chair,  and  looked  at 
the  girl  bending  over  the  fire,  with  a  quick,  impa- 
tient frown  on  his  handsome  face.  They  were 
twins,  these  two,  the  only  representatives  of  a 
family  that  had  been  wealthy  three  generations 
before  them,  but  whose  resources  had  dwindled 
steadily  under  the  management  of  three  succes- 
sive spendthrifts,  and  had  finally  disappeared 
altogether  in  a  desperate  speculation  which  had 
promised  to  restore  everything. 

"You  don't  seem  to  realise,"  the  young  man 
said,  "that  we  are  absolutely  penniless — desti- 
tute. Everything  is  sunk  in  this  Winhalla  Rail- 
way scheme,  up  to  the  last  penny.  It  seemed  a 
gorgeous  chance  at  the  time.  It  ought  to  have 
brought  in  thousands.  It  would  have  done,  too, 
if  it  had  been  properly  supported.  But  it's  no 

258 


The  Right  Man  259 

good  talking  about  that.  It's  just  a  gigantic 
failure,  or,  if  it  ever  does  succeed,  it  will  come  too 
late  uo  help  us.  Just  our  infernal  luck!  And  now 
the  question  is,  what  is  going  to  be  done?  You'll 
have  to  marry  that  fellow,  Violet.  It's  absolutely 
the  only  thing  for  you  to  do.  And  I — I  suppose  I 
must  emigrate." 

The  girl  'did  not  turn  her  head.  There  was 
something  tense  about  her  attitude. 

"I  could  emigrate  too,  Jerry, "  she  said,  in  a 
low  voice. 

"You!"  Her  brother  turned  more  fully  round. 
11  You ! "  he  said  again .  "  Are  you  mad ,  I  wonder  ? ' ' 

She  made  a  slight  gesture  of  protest. 

"Why  shouldn't  I?"  she  said.  "At  least,  we 
should  be  together." 

He  uttered  a  grim  laugh,  and  rose. 

"Look  here,  Violet,"  he  said,  and  took  her 
lightly  by  the  shoulders.  "Don't  be  a  little  fool! 
You  know  as  well  as  I  do  that  you  weren't  made 
to  rough  it.  The  suggestion  is  so  absurd  that  it 
isn't  worth  discussion.  You'll  have  to  marry 
Kenyon.  It's  as  plain  as  daylight;  and  I  only 
wish  my  perplexities  were  as  easily  solved.  Come ! 
He  isn't  such  a  bad  sort;  and,  anyhow,  he's  better 
than  starvation." 

The  girl  stood  up  slowly  and  faced  him.  Her 
eyes  were  wild,  like  the  eyes  of  a  hunted  creature. 

"I  hate  him,  Jerry!  I  hate  him!"  she  declared 
vehemently. 

"Nonsense:"  said  Jerry.     "He's  no  worse  than 


260  The  Swindler 

a  hundred  others.  You'd  hate  any  one  under 
these  abominable  circumstances!" 

She  shuddered,  as  if  in  confirmation  of  this 
statement. 

"I'd  rather  do  anything,"  she  said;  "anything, 
down  to  selling  matches  in  the  gutter. " 

"Which  isn't  a  practical  point  of  view, "  pointed 
out  Jerry.  "You  would  get  pneumonia  with  the 
first  east  wind,  and  die. " 

"Well,  then,  I'd  rather  die."  The  girl's  voice 
trembled  with  the  intensity  of  her  preference.  But 
her  brother  frowned  again  at  the  words. 

"Don't!"  he  said  abruptly.  "For  Heaven's 
sake,  don't  be  unreasonable!  Can't  you  see  that 
it's  my  greatest  worry  to  get  you  provided  for? 
You  must  marry.  You  can't  live  on  charity." 

Her  cheeks  flamed. 

"But  I  can  work,"  she  began.     "I  can " 

He  interrupted  her  impatiently. 

"You  can't.  You  haven't  the  strength,  and 
probably  not  the  ability  either.  It's  no  use  talk- 
ing this  sort  of  rot.  It's  simply  silly,  and  makes 
things  worse  for  both  of  us.  It's  all  very  well  to 
say  you'd  rather  starve,  but  when  it  comes  to 
starving,  as  it  will — as  it  must — you'll  think 
differently.  Look  here,  old  girl:  if  you  won't 
marry  this  fellow  for  your  own  sake,  do  it  for  mine. 
I  hate  it  just  as  much  as  you  do.  But  it's  bearable, 
at  least.  And — there  are  some  things  I  can't 
bear." 

He  stopped.     She  was  clinging  to  him  closely, 


The  Right  Man  261 

beseechingly ;  but  he  stood  firm  and  unyielding,  his 
young  face  set  in  hard  lines. 

"Will  you  do  it?"  he  said,  as  she  did  not  speak. 

"Jerry!"  she  said  imploringly. 

He  stiffened  to  meet  the  appeal  he  dreaded. 
But  it  did  not  come.  Her  eyes  were  raised  to  his, 
and  she  seemed  to  read  there  the  futility  of  argu- 
ment. She  remained  absolutely  still  for  some 
seconds,  then  abruptly  she  turned  from  him  and 
burst  into  tears. 

"Don't!  don't!  "he  said. 

He  stepped  close  to  her,  as  she  leaned  upon  the 
mantelpiece,  all  the  hardness  gone  from  his  face. 
Had  she  known  it,  the  battle  at  that  moment  might 
have  been  hers;  for  he  would  have  insisted  no 
longer.  He  was  on  the  brink  of  abandoning  the 
conflict.  But  her  anguish  of  weeping  possessed 
her  to  the  exclusion  of  everything  else. 

"Oh,  Jerry,  go  away!"  she  sobbed  passionately. 
"You're  a  perfect  beast,  and  I'm  another!  But 
I'll  do  it,  I'll  do  it — for  your  sake,  as  I  would  do 
anything  in  the  world,  though  it's  quite  true  that 
I'd  rather  starve!" 

And  Jerry,  rather  pale,  but  otherwise  complete 
master  of  himself,  patted  her  shoulder  with  a 
hasty  assumption  of  kindly  approval ;  and  told  her 
that  he  had  always  known  she  was  a  brick. 

II 

"Heaven  knows  I  don't  aspire  to  be  any 
particular  ornament  to  society,"  said  Dick  Ken- 


262  The  Swindler 

yon  modestly.  "Never  have;  though  I've  been 
pretty  well  everything  else  that  you  can  think 
of,  from  cow-puncher  to  millionaire.  And  I  can 
tell  you  there's  a  dashed  deal  more  fun  in  being 
the  first  than  the  last  of  those.  Still,  I  think  I 
could  make  you  comfortable  if  you  would  have  me ; 
though,  if  you  don't  want  to,  just  say  so,  and  I'll 
shunt  till  further  notice." 

It  was  thus  that  he  made  his  proposal  to  the  girl 
of  his  choice;  and  no  one,  hearing  it,  would  have 
guessed  that  beneath  his  calm,  even  phlegmatic, 
exterior,  the  man  was  in  a  ferment  of  anxiety.  He 
spoke  with  a  slight  nasal  twang  that  seemed  to 
emphasise  his  deliberation,  and  his  face  was  mask- 
like  in  its  composure.  Of  beauty  he  had  none. 

His  eyes  were  extraordinarily  blue,  but  the  lids 
drooped  over  them  so  heavily  that  his  expression 
was  habitually  drowsy,  even  stolid.  In  build,  he 
was  short  and  thick-set,  like  a  bulldog;  and  there 
seemed  to  be  something  of  a  bulldog's  strength  in 
the  breadth  of  his  chest,  though  there  was  no  hint 
of  energy  about  him  to  warrant  its  development. 

The  girl  he  addressed  did  not  look  at  hirn.  She 
sat  perfectly  still,  with  her  hands  fast  clasped 
together,  and  her  eyes,  wide  and  despairing,  fixed 
upon  the  fire  in  front  of  her.  She  was  wondering 
desperately  how  long  she  could  possibly  endure  it. 
Yet  his  last  words  were  somehow  not  what  she  had 
expected  from  this  man  whose  manner  always 
seemed  to  hint  that  at  least  half  of  creation  was  at 
his  sole  disposal.  They  expressed  a  consideration 


The  Right  Man  263 

on  his  part  that  she  had  been  far  from  anticipating. 
He  waited  for  an  interval  of  several  seconds  for  her 
to  speak.  He  was  standing  up  on  the  hearthrug, 
his  ill-proportioned  figure  thrown  into  strong  relief 
by  the  firelight  behind  him.  At  last,  as  she  quite 
failed  to  answer  him,  he  drew  a  pace  nearer  to  her. 

"Don't  mind  me,  Miss  Trelevan, "  he  said,  in 
a  drawl  so  exaggerated  that  she  thought  it  must 
be  intentional.  "Take  your  time.  There's  no 
hurry.  I've  always  thought  it  was  a  bit  hard  on  a 
woman  to  expect  her  to  answer  an  offer  of  mar- 
riage offhand.  Perhaps  you'd  rather  write?" 

"No,"  she  said,  rather  breathlessly.  "No!" 
Then,  after  a  pause,  still  more  breathlessly: 
"Won't  you  sit  down?" 

He  stepped  away  from  her  again,  to  her  infinite 
relief,  and  sat  down  a  couple  of  yards  away. 

There  ensued  a  most  painful  silence,  during 
which  the  battle  in  the  girl's  heart  raged  fiercely. 
Then  at  length  she  cc  ">k  her  resolution  in  both 
hands,  and  faced  him.  He  was  not  looking  at  her. 
He  sat  quite  still,  and  she  fancied  that  his  eyes 
were  closed;  but  when  she  spoke  he  turned  his 
head,  and  she  real:  :ed  that  she  had  been  mistaken. 

"I  can  give  you  your  answer  now,"  she  said, 
making  the  greatest  effort  of  her  life.  "It  is — it 
is — yes. 

She  rose  with  the  words,  almost  as  if  in  pre- 
paration for  headlong  flight.  But  Dick  Kenyon 
kept  his  seat.  He  leaned  forward  a  little,  his 
blue  eyes  lifted  to  her  face. 


264  The  Swindler 

£•-•' 

"  Your  final  word,  Miss  Trelevan?  "  he  asked  her, 
in  his  cool,  easy  twang. 

She  wrung  her  hands  together  with  an  uncon- 
scious gesture  of  despair. 

"Yes,"  she  said;  and  added  feverishly:  "of 
course. " 

"You  think  you've  met  the  right  man?"  he 
pursued,  his  tone  one  of  gentle  inquiry,  as  if  he 
were  speaking  to  a  child. 

She  nodded.     She  was  white  to  the  lips. 

"Yes,"  she  said  again. 

He  got  up  then  with  extreme  deliberation. 

"Well, "  he  said,  a  curious  smile  flickering  about 
his  mouth,  "that's  about  the  biggest  surprise  I've 
ever  had.  And  I  don't  mind  telling  you  so. 
Sure  now  that  you're  not  making  a  mistake?" 

She  uttered  a  little  laugh  that  sounded  hysteri- 
cal. 

"  Oh,  don't ! "  she  said.  "  Don't !  I  have  given 
you  my  answer!" 

"And  I'm  to  take  you  seriously?"  questioned 
Kenyon.  "Very  well.  I  will.  But  you  mustn't 
be  frightened." 

He  stretched  out  a  steady  hand,  and  laid  it  on 
her  shoulder.  She  quivered  at  his  touch,  but  she 
did  not  attempt  to  resist. 

"Don't  be  scared,"  he  said  very  gently.  "I 
know  I'm  as  ugly  as  blazes;  at  least,  I've  been  told 
so,  but  there's  nothing  else  to  alarm  you  if  you  can 
once  get  over  that." 

There  was  a  note  of  quaint  raillery  in  his  voice. 


The  Right  Man  265 

He  did  not  try  to  draw  her  to  him.  Yet  she  was 
conscious  of  a  strength  that  did  battle  with  her 
half -instinctive  aversion — a  strength  that  might 
have  compelled,  but  preferred  to  attract. 

Unwillingly,  at  length,  she  looked  at  him,  meet- 
inghiseyes,  good-humouredly  critical,  watching  her. 

"I  am  not  frightened,"  she  said,  with  an  effort. 
"It's  only  that — just  at  first — till  I  get  used  to  it — 
it  feels  rather  strange. " 

There  was  unconscious  pleading  in  her  voice. 
He  took. his  hand  from  her  shoulder,  looking  at 
her  with  his  queer,  speculative  smile. 

"I  don't  want  to  hustle  you  any,"  he  said. 
"But  if  that's  all  the  trouble,  I  guess  I  know  a 
remedy." 

Violet  drew  back  sharply. 

"Oh,  no!  "she  said.     "No!" 

She  was  terrified  for  the  moment  lest  he  should 
desire  to  put  his  remedy  to  the  test.  But  he  made 
no  movement  in  her  direction,  and  another  sort  of 
misgiving  assailed  her. 

"Don't  be  vexed,"  she  said  unsteadily.  "I — I 
know  I'm  despicable.  But  I  shall  get  over  it — if 
you  will  give  me  time. " 

"Bless  your  heart,  I'm  not  vexed,"  said  Kenyon. 
"I'm  only  wondering,  don't  you  know,  how  you 
brought  yourself  to  say  'Yes*  to  me.  But  no 
matter,  dear.  I'm  grateful  all  the  same." 

He  held  out  his  hand  to  her,  and  she  laid  hers 
nervously  within  it.  She  could  not  meet  his  eyes 
any  longer. 


266  The  Swindler 

Kenyon  stooped  and  put  his  lips  to  her  cold 

fingers. 

"Jove!"  he  said  softly.     "I'm  in  luck  to-day." 
And  after  that  he  sat  down  again,  and  began  to 

behave  like  an  ordinary  visitor. 


Ill 


"Great  Scotland!"  said  Jerry. 

He  looked  up  from  a  letter,  and  gazed  at  his 
sister  with  starting  eyes. 

"Oh,  what?"  she  exclaimed  in  alarm. 

He  sprang  up  impetuously,  and  went  round  the 
table  to  her.  They  were  breakfasting  in  the  tiny 
flat  which  was  theirs  for  but  three  short  months 
longer. 

"Guess!"  he  said.  "No,  don't!  I  can't  wait. 
It's  the  family  luck,  old  girl,  turned  at  last !  It's 
the  original  gorgeous  chance  again  with  a  practical 
dead  certainty  pushing  behind.  "It's  the  Win- 
halla  Railway  turning  up  trumps  just  in  time." 

And,  with  a  whoop  that  might  have  been  eard 
from  garret  to  basement,  Jerry  swept  his  sister 
from  her  chair,  and  waltzed  her  giddily  round  the 
little  room  till  she  cried  breathlessly  for  mercy. 

"Oh,  but  do  tell  me!"  she  gasped,  when  he  set 
her  down  again.  "I  want  to  understand,  Jerry. 
Don't  be  so  mad.  Tell  me  exactly  what  has 
happened!" 

"I'll  tell  you,"  said  Jerry,  sitting  down  on  the 
tablecloth.  "It's  a  letter  from  Gardner — my 


The  Right  Man  267 

broker  and  man  of  business  generally — written 
last  night  to  tell  me  that  one  of  these  swaggering 
capitalists  has  got  hold  of  the  Winhalla  Railway 
scheme,  and  is  going  to  make  things  hum.  Shares 
are  going  up  already;  and  they'll  run  sky  high  by 
the  end  of  the  week.  It's  bound  to  be  all  right. 
It  was  always  sound  enough.  It  only  wanted 
capital.  He  doesn't  tell  me  the  bounder's  name, 
but  that's  no  matter.  I  don't  want  to  go  into 
partnership.  I  shall  sell,  sell,  sell,  at  the  top  of 
the  boom.  Gardner's  to  be  trusted.  He'll  know 
— and  then — and  then " 

"Yes;  what  does  it  mean?"  the  girl  broke  in. 
"I  want  to  know  exactly,  Jerry!" 

"Mean?"  he  echoed,  his  hands  upon  her  shoul- 
ders. "It  means  emancipation,  wealth,  every- 
thing we've  lost  back  again,  and  more  to  it !  Now 
do  you  understand?" 

She  gasped  for  breath.  She  had  turned  very 
pale. 

"Oh,  Jerry!"  she  said  tragically.  "Jerry,  why 
didn't  this  happen  before?" 

He  stared  at  her  for  a  moment.  Then,  as 
understanding  came  to  him,  he  frowned  with 
swift  impatience. 

"  Oh,  that  must  be  broken  off ! "  he  said.  "  You 
can't  marry  that  fellow  now.  Why  should  you?" 

Violet  shook  her  head  hopelessly. 

"I've  promised,"  she  said;  "promised  to  marry 
him  at  the  end  of  next  month. " 

Jerry  jumped  up  impulsively. 


268  The  Swindler 

"But  that's  soon  arranged,"  he  declared. 
"  Leave  it  to  me.  I'll  explain. " 

"How  can  you?"  questioned  Violet. 

"I  shall  put  it  on  a  purely  business  footing," 
he  returned  airily.  "Don't  you  worry  yourself. 
He  isn't  the  sort  of  chap  to  take  it  to  heart.  You 
know  that  as  well  as  I  do.  Perhaps  it  might  be 
as  well  to  wait  till  the  end  of  the  week  and  make 
sure  of  things,  though,  before  I  say  anything. " 

But  at  this  point  Violet  gave  him  the  biggest 
surprise  he  had  ever  known.  She  sprang  to  her 
feet  with  flashing  eyes. 

"Indeed  you  won't,  Jerry!"  she  exclaimed. 
"You  will  tell  him  to-day — this  morning — and 
end  it  definitely.  Never  mind  what  happens  after- 
wards. I  won't  carry  the  dishonourable  bargain 
to  that  length.  I've  little  enough  self-respect  left, 
but  what  there  is  of  it  I'll  keep!" 

"Heavens  above!"  ejaculated  Jerry,  in  amaze- 
ment. "What's  the  matter  now?  I  was  only 
thinking  of  you,  after  all. " 

"I  know  you  were,"  she  answered  passionately. 
"But  you're  to  think  of  something  greater  than 
my  physical  welfare.  You're  to  think  of  my  mis- 
erable little  rag  of  honour,  and  do  what  you  can 
for  that,  if  you  really  want  to  help  me ! " 

And  with  that  she  went  quickly  from  the  room 
and  left  him  to  breakfast  alone. 

He  marvelled  for  a  little  at  her  agitation,  and 
then  the  contents  of  the  letter  absorbed  him  again. 
He  had  better  go  and  see  Gardner,  he  reflected ;  and 


The  Right  Man  269 


then,  if  the  thing  really  seemed  secure,  he  would 
take  Dick  Kenyon  on  his  way  back — perhaps 
lunch  with  him,  and  explain  matters  in  a  friendly 
way.  There  was  certainly  nothing  for  Violet  to 
make  a  fuss  about.  He  was  quite  fully  convinced 
that  the  fellow  wouldn't  care.  Marriage  was  a 
mere  incident  to  men  of  his  stamp. 

So,  cheerily  at  length,  having  disposed  of  his 
breakfast,  he  rose,  collected  his  correspondence, 
which  consisted  for  the  most  part  of  bills,  and, 
whistling  light-heartedly,  took  his  departure. 


IV 


"Now,"  said  Dick  Kenyon,  in  his  easy,  self- 
assured  accents,  "sit  down  right  there,  sonny,  and 
tell  me  what's  on  your  mind. "  ( 

He  pressed  Jerry  into  his  most  comfortable 
chair  with  hospitable  force. 

Jerry  submitted,  because  he  could  not  help  him- 
self, rather  than  from  choice.  Patronage  from 
Dick  Kenyon  was  something  of  an  offence  to  his 
ever-ready  pride. 

As  for  Dick,  he  had  not  apparently  the  smallest 
suspicion  of  any  latent  resentment  of  this  nature 
in  his  visitor's  mind.  He  brought  out  a  box  of 
choice  cigars,  and  set  them  at  Jerry's  elbow.  They 
had  just  lunched  together  at  Kenyon 's  rooms;  and 
it  had  been  quite  obvious  to  the  latter  that  Jerry 
had  been  preoccupied  throughout  the  meal. 

Having  furnished  his  guest  with  everything  he 


270  The  Swindler 

could  think  of  to  ensure  his  comfort,  he  proceeded 
deliberately  to  provide  for  his  own. 

Jerry  was  not  quite  at  his  ease.  He  sat  with  the 
unHghted  cigar  between  his  fingers,  considering 
with  bent  brows.  Kenyon  looked  at  him  at  last 
with  a  faint  smile. 

"If  I  didn't  know  it  to  be  an  impossibility,"  he 
said,  "I  should  say  you  were  shying  at  some- 
thing." 

Jerry  turned  towards  him  with  an  air  of  resolu- 
tion. 

"Look  here,  Kenyon,"  he  said,  in  his  slightly 
superior  tones,  "I  have  really  come  to  talk  to  you 
about  your  engagement  to  my  sister." 

He  paused,  aware  of  a  change  in  Kenyon's  ex- 
pression, but  wholly  unable  to  discover  of  what 
it  consisted. 

"What  about  it?"  said  Kenyon. 

He  was  on  his  feet,  searching  the  mantelpiece  for 
an  ash-tray.  His  face  was  turned  from  Jerry,  but 
could  he  have  seen  it  fully,  it  would  have  told  him 
nothing. 

Jerry  went  on,  with  a  strong  effort  to  maintain 
his  ease  of  manner: 

"We've  been  thinking  it  over,  and  we  have  come 
to  the  conclusion  that  perhaps,  after  all,  it  was  a 
mistake.  In  short,  my  sister  has  thought  better 
of  it;  and,  as  she  is  naturally  sensitive  on  the 
subject,  I  undertook  to  tell  you  so,  I  don't  sup- 
pose it  will  make  any  particular  difference  to  you. 
There  are  plenty  of  girls  who  would  jump  at  the 


The  Right  Man  271 

chance  of  marrying  your  millions.  But,  of  course, 
if  you  wish  it,  some  compensation  could  be 
made." 

Jerry  paused  again.  He  had  placed  the  matter 
on  the  most  businesslike  footing  that  had  occurred 
to  him.  Of  course,  the  man  must  realise  that  he 
was  a  rank  outsider,  and  would  understand  that  it 
was  the  best  method. 

Kenyon  heard  him  out  in  dead  silence.  He  had 
found  the  ash-tray,  but  he  did  not  turn  his  head. 
After  several  dumb  seconds,  he  walked  across  the 
room  to  the  window,  and  stood  there.  Finally  he 
spoke. 

"I  don't  suppose, "  he  said,  in  his  calm,  expres- 
sionless drawl,  "that  you  have  ever  had  a  cow- 
hiding  in  your  life,  have  you?" 

"What?  "said  Jerry. 

He  stared  at  Kenyon  in  frank  amazement. 
Was  the  man  mad? 

"Never  had  a  cowhiding  in  your  life,  eh?" 
repeated  Kenyon,  without  moving. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  exclaimed  Jerry. 

Kenyon  remained  motionless. 

"I  mean,"  he  said  calmly,  "that  I've  thrashed 
a  man  to  a  pulp  before  now  for  a  good  deal  less 
than  you  have  just  offered  me.  It's  my  special 
treatment  for  curs.  Suits  'em  wonderfully.  And 
suits  me,  too. " 

Jerry  sprang  to  his  feet  in  a  whirl  of  wrath,  but 
before  he  could  utter  a  word  Kenyon  suddenly 
turned. 


272  The  Swindler 

"Go  back  to  your  sister, "  he  said,  in  curt,  stern 
tones,  "and  tell  her  from  me  that  I  will  discuss 
this  matter  with  her  alone.  If  she  intends  to 
throw  me  over,  she  must  come  to  me  herself  and 
tell  me  so.  Go  now!" 

But  Jerry  stood  halting  between  an  open  blaze  of 
passion  and  equally  open  discomfiture.  He  longed 
to  hurl  defiance  in  Kenyon's  face,  but  some  hidden 
force  restrained  him.  There  was  that  about  the 
man  at  that  moment  which  compelled  submission. 
And  so,  at  length,  he  turned  without  another  word, 
and  walked  straight  from  the  room  with  as  fine  a 
dignity  as  he  could  muster.  By  some  remarkable 
means,  Dick  Kenyon  had  managed  to  get  the  best 
of  the  encounter. 


Not  the  next  day,  nor  the  next,  did  Violet 
Trelevan  summon  up  courage  to  face  her  out- 
raged lover,  and  ask  for  her  freedom.  Jerry  did 
not  tell  her  precisely  what  had  passed,  but  she 
gathered  from  the  information  he  vouchsafed  that 
Kenyon  had  not  treated  the  matter  peaceably. 
She  wondered  a  little  how  Jerry  had  approached  it, 
and  told  herself  with  a  beating  heart  that  she  would 
have  to  take  her  own  line  of  action. 

Nevertheless,  for  a  full  week  she  did  nothing, 
and  at  the  end  of  that  week  the  flutter  in  the  Win- 
halla  Railway  shares  had  subsided  completely,  and 
all  Jerry's  high  hopes  were  dead.  From  day  to 


The  Right  Man  273 

day  he  had  tried  to  console  himself  and  her  with  the 
reflection  that  a  speculation  of  that  sort  wa  j  bound 
to  fluctuate,  but,  in  the  end,  when  the  sha^s  went 
down  to  zero,  he  was  forced  to  own  that  he  had 
been  too  sanguine.  It  had  been  but  the  last  flicker 
before  extinction.  The  capitalist  had  evidently 
thought  better  of  risking  his  money  on  such  a 
venture. 

"And  I  was  a  gaping,  weak-kneed  idiot  not  to 
sell  for  what  I  could  get ! "  he  told  his  sister.  "But 
it's  just  our  luck.  I  might  have  known  nothing 
decent  could  ever  happen  to  us!" 

It  was  on  that  evening,  when  the  outlook  was  at 
its  blackest,  that  Violet  wrote  at  last,  without 
consulting  Jerry,  to  the  man  in  whose  hands  lay 
her  freedom. 

It  was  a  short  epistle,  and  humbly  worded,  for 
she  realised  that  this,  at  least,  was  his  due. 

" I  want  you, "  she  wrote,  "to  forgive  me,  if  you 
can,  for  the  wrong  I  have  done  you,  and  to  set  me 
free.  I  accepted  you  upon  impulse,  I  am  ashamed 
to  say,  for  the  sake  of  your  money.  But  the  shame 
would  be  even  greater  if  I  did  not  tell  you  so.  I 
do  not  know  what  view  you  will  take,  but  my  own 
is  that,  in  releasing  me,  you  will  not  lose  anything 
that  is  worth  having." 

The  answer  to  this  appeal  came  the  next  day  by 
hand: 

"May  I  see  you  alone  at  your  flat  at  five 
o'clock?" 

She  had  not  expected  it,  and  she  felt  for  an 
ii 


274  The  Swindler 

instant  as  if  a  master  hand  had  touched  her,  send- 
ing the  blood  tingling  through  her  veins  like  fire. 
She  sent  a  reply  in  the  affirmative;  and  then  set 
herself  to  face  the  longest  day  she  had  ever  lived 
through. 

She  sat  alone  during  the  afternoon,  striving 
desperately  to  nerve  herself  for  the  ordeal.  But 
strive  as  she  might,  the  fact  remained  that  she  was 
horribly,  painfully  frightened.  There  was  some- 
thing about  this  man  which  it  seemed  futile  to 
resist,  something  that  dominated  her,  something 
against  which  it  hurt  her  to  fight. 

She  heard  his  ring  punctually  upon  the  stroke  of 
five,  and  she  went  herself  to  answer  it. 

He  greeted  her  with  his  usual  serenity  of 
manner. 

"All  alone?"  he  asked,  as  he  followed  her  into 
the  little  drawing-room  in  which  he  had  proposed 
to  her  so  short  a  time  before. 

She  assented  nervously. 

"Jerry  went  into  the  city.  He  won't  be  back 
yet." 

"That's  kind  of  you,"  said  Kenyon  quietly. 

She  did  not  ask  him  to  sit  down.  They  faced 
each  other  on  the  hearthrug.  The  strong  glare  of 
the  electric  light  showed  him  that  she  was  very 
pale. 

Abruptly  he  thrust 'out  his  hand  to  her. 

"You  must  forgive  me  for  bullying  your  brother 
the  other  day,"  he  said.  "Really,  he  deserved 
it." 


The  Right  Man  275 

She  glanced  up  quickly. 

"Jerry  doesn't  understand,"  she  said. 

He  kept  his  hand  outstretched  though  she  did 
not  take  it. 

"I  don't  understand,  either,"  he  said. 

"Do  you  really  want  to  shake  hands  with  me?" 
she  murmured,  her  voice  very  low. 

"I  want  to  hold  your  hand  in  mine,  if  I  may," 
he  answered  simply.  "I  think  it  will  help  to  solve 
the  difficulty.  Thank  you!  Yes;  I  thought  you 
were  trembling.  Now,  why,  I  wonder?" 

She  did  not  answer  him.     Her  head  was  bent. 

"Don't!"  he  said  gently.  "There  is  no  cause. 
Didn't  I  tell  you  I  would  shunt  if  you  didn't  want 
me?" 

Still  she  was  silent,  her  hand  lying  passive  in 
his. 

"Come!"  he  said.  "I  want  to  understand, 
don't  you  know.  That  note  of  yours.  You  say  in 
it  that  you  accepted  me  for  the  sake  of  my  money. 
Even  so.  But  I  reckon  that  is  more  a  reason  for 
sticking  to  me  than  for  throwing  me  over. " 

He  paused,  but  her  head  only  drooped  a  little 
lower. 

"Doesn't  that  reason  still  exist?"  he  asked  her, 
point  blank. 

She  shivered  at  the  direct  question,  but  she 
answered  it. 

"Yes;  it  does.  And  that's  why  I'm  ashamed  to 
go  on." 

"Why  ashamed?"  he  asked.     "How  do  you 


276  The  Swindler 

know  my  reason  for  wanting  to  marry  you  is  as 
good  since  I  never  told  you  what  it  was?  " 

She  looked  up  then,  suddenly  and  swiftly,  and 
caught  a  curious  glint  in  the  blue  eyes  that  watched 
her. 

"I  do  know,"  she  said,  speaking  quickly, 
impulsively.  "And  that's  why — I  can't  bear — 
that  you  should  despise  me. " 

"Ah!"  he  said.  "Do  you  really  care  what  an 
outsider  like  myself  thinks  of  you?" 

The  colour  flamed  suddenly  in  her  white  face, 
but  he  went  on  in  his  quiet  drawl  as  if  he  had  not 
seen  it: 

"If  I  thought  it  was  for  your  happiness,  be- 
lieve me,  I  would  set  you  free.  But,  so  far,  you 
haven't  given  me  any  reason  that  could  justify 
such  a  step.  Can't  you  think  of  one?  Honestly, 
now?" 

She  shook  her  head.  Her  eyes  were  full  of 
blinding  tears. 

"What  is  it,  then?"  urged  Kenyon.  And 
suddenly  his  voice  was  as  soft  as  a  woman's. 
"Has  the  right  man  turned  up  unexpectedly,  after 
all?  Is  it  for  his  sake?" 

"Oh,  don't!"  she  cried  passionately.  "Don't! 
You  hurt  me!" 

And,  turning  sharply  from  him,  she  hid  her  face, 
and  broke  into  anguished  weeping. 

Kenyon  stood  quite  still  for  perhaps  ten  seconds ; 
then  he  moved  close  to  her,  and  put  his  arm  round 
the  slight,  sobbing  figure. 


The  Right  Man  277 

She  did  not  start  or  attempt  to  resist  him. 

"There,  there!"  he  whispered  soothingly.  "I 
knew  there  was  a  reason.  Don't  cry,  dear!  It 
will  be  all  right — all  right.  Never  mind  the 
beastly  money.  There's  going  to  be  a  big  boom  in 
the  Winhalla  Railway  shares,  and  you'll  make 
your  fortune  over  it.  Yes;  I  know  all  about  that. 
A  friend  told  me.  There's  a  big  capitalist  pushing 
behind.  They  have  gone  down  this  week,  but  they 
are  going  to  rise  like  a  spring  tide  next.  And  then 
— you'll  be  free  to  marry  the  right  man,  eh,  dear? 
I  sha'n't  stand  in  your  way.  I'll  even  come  and 
dance  at  the  wedding,  if  you'll  have  me. " 

She  uttered  a  muffled  laugh  through  her  tears, 
and  turned  slightly  towards  him  within  the  en- 
circling arm. 

"I  hope  you  will, "  she  murmured.  " Because — 
because — "  She  broke  off,  and  became  silent. 

Dick  Kenyon's  arm  did  not  slacken. 

"If  you  could  make  it  convenient  to  finish  that 
sentence  of  yours,  I'd  be  real  grateful,"  he  ob- 
served, at  length. 

She  lifted  her  face  from  her  hands,  and  looked 
him  in  the  eyes.  Her  own  were  shining. 

"Because,"  she  said  unsteadily,  "I  couldn't 
marry  the  right  man — if  you  weren't  there." 

He  looked  straight  back  at  her  without  a  hint  of 
emotion  in  his  heavy  eyes. 

"Quite  sure  of  that?"  he  asked. 

And  she  laughed  again  tremulously  as  she  made 
reply. 


278  The  Swindler 

"Quite  sure,  Dick,"  she  said  softly,  "though 
I've  only  just  found  it  out." 

Jerry,  tearing  in  a  little  later,  brimful  of  city 
news,  noticed  that  his  sister's  face  was  brighter 
than  usual,  but  failed,  in  his  excitement,  to  perceive 
a  visitor  in  the  room,  the  visitor  not  troubling 
himself  to  rise  at  his  entrance. 

"News,  Vi!"  he  shouted.  "Gorgeous  news! 
The  Winhalla  Railway  is  turning  up  trumps! 
The  shares  are  simply  flying  up.  I  told  Gardner 
I'd  sell  at  fifty,  but  he  says  they  are  worth  holding 
on  to,  for  they'll  go  above  that.  He  vows  they're 
safe.  And  who  do  you  think  is  the  capitalist  that's 
pushing  behind  ?  Why,  Kenyon ! ' ' 

He  broke  off  abruptly  at  this  point  as  Kenyon 
himself  arose  leisurely  with  a  serene  smile  and 
outstretched  hand. 

"Exactly — Kenyon!"  he  said.  "But  if  you 
think  he's  a  rank  bad  speculator  like  yourself, 
sonny,  you're  mistaken.  I  didn't  make  my  money 
that  way,  and  I  don't  reckon  to  lose  it  that  way 
either.  But  Gardner's  right.  Those  shares  are 
safe.  They  aren't  going  down  again  ever  any 
more. " 

He  turned  to  the  girl  on  his  other  side,  and  laid 
his  free  hand  on  her  shoulder. 

"And  I  guess  you'll  forgive  me  for  distressing 
you,"  he  said,  "when  I  tell  you  why  I  did  it." 

"Well,  why,  Dick?"  she  questioned,  her  face 
turned  to  his. 


The  Right  Man  279 

"I  just  thought  I'd  like  to  know,  dear,"  he 
drawled,  "if  there  wasn't  something  bigger  than 
money  to  be  got  out  of  this  deal.  And — are  you 
listening,  Jerry? — I  found  there  was!" 


The  Knight  Errant 


THE  APPEAL 

THE  Poor  Relation  hoisted  one  leg  over  the  arm 
of  his  chair,  and  gazed  contemplatively  at 
the  ceiling. 

"Now,  I  wonder  whom  I  ought  to  scrag  for 
this, "  he  mused  aloud. 

A  crumpled  newspaper  lay  under  his  hand,  a 
certain  paragraph  uppermost  that  was  strongly 
scored  with  red  ink.  He  had  read  it  twice  already 
and  after  a  thoughtful  pause  he  proceeded  to  read 
it  again. 

"A  marriage  has  been  arranged  and  will  shortly 
take  place  between  Cecil  Mordaunt  Rivington 
and  Ernestine,  fourth  daughter  of  Lady  Florence 
Cardwell." 

"Why  Ernestine,  I  wonder?"  murmured  the 
Poor  Relation.  "Thought  she  was  still  in  short 
frocks.  Used  to  be  rather  a  jolly  little  kid.  Won- 
der what  she  thinks  of  the  arrangement?" 

A  faint  smile  cocked  one  corner  of  his  mouth — a 
280 


The  Knight  Errant  281 

very  plain  mouth  which  he  wore  no  moustache  to 
hide. 

' '  And  Lady  Florence !  Ye  gods !  Wonder  what 
she  thinks!" 

The  smile  developed  into  a  snigger,  and  vanished 
at  a  breath. 

"But  it's  really  infernally  awkward,"  he  de- 
clared. "Ought  one  to  go  and  apologise  for  what 
one  hasn't  done?  Really,  I  don't  know  if  I  dare!" 

Again,  as  one  searching  for  inspiration,  he  read 
the  brief  paragraph. 

"It  looks  to  me,  Cecil  Mordaunt,  as  if  you  are  in 
for  a  very  warm  time, "  he  remarked  at  the  end  of 
this  final  inspection.  "  Such  a  time  as  you  haven't 
had  since  you  left  Rugby.  If  you  take  my  advice 
you'll  sit  tight  like  a  sensible  chap  and  leave  this 
business  to  engineer  itself.  No  good  ever  came  of 
meddling." 

With  which  practical  reflection  he  rose  to  fill  and 
light  a  briar  pipe,  his  inseparable  companion,  be- 
fore grappling  with  his  morning  correspondence. 

This  lay  in  a  neat  pile  at  his  elbow,  and  after  a 
ruminative  pause  devoted  to  the  briar  pipe,  he 
applied  himself  deliberately  to  its  consideration. 

The  first  two  he  examined  and  tossed  aside  with 
a  bored  expression.  The  third  seemed  to  excite 
his  interest.  It  was  directed  in  a  nervous,  irregu- 
lar hand  that  had  tried  too  hard  to  be  firm,  and 
had  spluttered  the  ink  in  consequence.  The 
envelope  was  of  a  pearly  grey  tint.  The  Poor 
Relation  sniffed  at  it,  and  turned  up  his  nose. 


282  The  Swindler 

Nevertheless,  he  opened  the  missive  with  a 
promptitude  that  testified  to  a  certain  amount  of 
curiosity. 

"Dear  Knight  Errant,"  he  read,  in  the  same 
desperate  handwriting.  "Do  you  remember  once 
years  ago  coming  to  the  rescue  of  a  lady  in  distress 
who  was  chased  by  a  bull?  The  lady  has  never 
forgotten  it.  Will  you  do  the  same  again  for  the 
same  lady  to-day,  and  earn  her  undying  gratitude? 
If  so,  will  you  confirm  the  statement  in  the  Morn, 
ing  Post  as  often  and  as  convincingly  as  you  can 
till  further  notice?  I  wonder  if  you  will?  I  do 
wonder.  I  couldn't  ask  you  if  you  were  anything 
but  poor  and  a  sort  of  relation  as  well. — Yours, 
in  extremis, 

"ERNESTINE  CARDWELL. 

"P.S. — Of  course,  don't  do  it  if  you  would 
really  rather  not. " 

"Thank you,  Ernestine ! "  said  the  Poor  Relation. 
"That  last  sentence  of  yours  might  be  described  as 
the  saving  clause.  I  would  very  much  rather  not, 
if  the  truth  be  told;  which  it  probably  never  will 
be.  As  you  have  shrewdly  foreseen,  the  subtlety 
of  your  'in  extremis'  draws  me  in  spite  of  myself. 
I  have  seen  you  in  extremis  before,  and  I  must 
admit  the  spectacle  made  something  of  an  impres- 
sion. " 

He  read  the  letter  again  with  characteristic  de- 
liberation, lay  back  awhile  with  pale  blue  eyes 
fixed  unswervingly  upon  the  ceiling,  and  finally 
rose  and  betook  himself  to  his  writing-table. 


The  Knight  Errant  283 

"Dear  Lady  in  Distress,"  he  wrote.  "I  am 
pleased  to  note  that  even  poor  relations  have  their 
uses.  As  your  third  cousin  removed  to  the  sixth 
or  seventh  degree,  I  shall  be  most  happy  to  serve 
you.  Pray  regard  me  as  unreservedly  at  your 
disposal.  Awaiting  your  further  commands. — 
Your  devoted 

"KNIGHT  ERRANT." 

This  letter  he  directed  to  Miss  Ernestine  Card- 
well  and  despatched  by  special  messenger.  Then, 
with  a  serene  countenance,  he  glanced  through 
his  remaining  correspondence,  stretched  himself, 
yawned,  looked  out  of  the  window,  and  finally 
sauntered  forth  to  his  club. 

II 

CONGRATULATIONS 

"Ye  gods!  I  should  think  Lady  Florence  is 
feelin'  pretty  furious.  The  fellow  hasn't  a  penny, 
and  isn't  even  an  honourable.  I  thought  all 
her  daughters  were  to  be  princesses  or  duchesses 
or  ranees  or  somethin'  imposin'." 

Archie  Fielding,  gossip-in-chief  of  the  Junior 
Sherwood  Club,  beat  a  rousing  tattoo  on  the  table, 
and  began  to  whistle  Mendelssohn's  "Wedding 
March." 

"Wonder  if  he  will  want  me  to  be  best  man, "  he 
proceeded.  "  It'll  be  the  seventh  time  this  season. 
Think  I  shall  make  a  small  charge  for  my  services 


284  The  Swindler 

for  the  future.  Not  to  poor  old  Cecil,  though. 
He's  always  hard-up.  I  wonder  what  they'll  live 
on.  I'll  bet  Miss  Ernestine  hasn't  been  brought 
up  on  cheese  and  smoked  herrings. " 

"Which  is  Ernestine?"  asked  another  member, 
generally  known  at  the  club  as  "that  ass  Bray." 
"The  little  one,  isn't  it;  the  one  that  laughs?" 

"The  cheeky  one — yes, "  said  Archie.  "I  saw 
her  ridin'  in  the  Park  with  Dinghra  the  other  day. 
Awful  brute,  Dinghra,  if  he  is  a  rajah's  son. " 

"Shocking  bounder!"  said  Bray.  "But  rich — 
a  quality  that  covers  a  multitude  of  sins. " 

"Especially  in  Lady  Florence's  estimation," 
remarked  Archie.  "  She's  had  designs  on  him  ever 
since  Easter.  Ernestine  is  a  nice  little  thing,  you 
know,  but  somehow  she  hangs  fire.  A  trifle  over- 
independent,  I  suppose,  and  she  has  a  sharp  tongue, 
too — tells  the  truth  a  bit  too  often,  don't  you 
know.  I  don't  get  on  with  that  sort  of  girl  myself. 
But  I'll  swear  Dinghra  is  head  over  ears,  the  brute. 
I'd  give  twenty  pounds  to  punch  his  evil  mouth. " 

"Yes,  he's  pretty  foul,  certainly.  But  appar- 
ently she  isn't  for  him.  I'm  surprised  that  Cecil 
has  taken  the  trouble  to  compete.  He's  kept 
mighty  quiet  about  it.  I've  met  him  hardly 
anywhere  this  season." 

"Oh,  he's  a  lazy  animal!  But  he  always  does 
things  on  the  quiet;  it  is  his  nature  to.  He's  the 
sort  of  chap  that  thinks  for  about  twenty  years, 
and  then  goes  straight  and  does  the  one  and  only 
thing  that  no  one  else  would  dream  of  doin'.  I 


The  Knight  Errant  285 

rather  fancy,  for  all  his  humdrum  ways,  he  would 
be  a  difficult  man  to  thwart.  I'd  give  a  good  deal 
to  know  how  he  got  over  Lady  Florence,  though. 
He  has  precious  little  to  recommend  him  as  a  son- 
in-law.  " 

At  this  point  some  one  kicked  him  violently,  and 
he  looked  up  to  see  the  subject  of  his  harangue 
sauntering  up  the  room. 

"Are  you  talking  about  me?"  he  inquired,  as  he 
came.  "Don't  let  me  interrupt,  I  beg.  I  know 
I'm  an  edifying  topic,  eh,  Archibald?" 

"Oh,  don't  ask  me  to  praise  you  to  your  face," 
said  Archie,  quite  unperturbed.  "How  are  you, 
old  chap?  We  are  all  gapin'  with  amazement  over 
this  mornin's  news.  Is  it  really  true?  Are  we  to 
congratulate?" 

"Are  you  referring  to  my  engagement?"  asked 
the  Poor  Relation,  pausing  in  the  middle  of  the 
group.  "Yes,  of  course  it's  true.  Do  you  mean 
to  say  you  were  such  a  pack  of  dunderheads  you 
didn't  see  it  coming?" 

"There  wasn't  anything  to  see,"  protested 
Archie.  "You've  been  lyin'  low,  you  howlin' 
hypocrite !  I  always  said  you  were  a  dark  horse. " 

The  Poor  Relation  smiled  upon  him  tolerantly. 

"Can't  you  call  me  anything  else  interesting? 
It  seems  to  have  hurt  your  feelings  rather,  not 
being  in  the  know.  I  can't  understand  your  not 
smelling  a  rat.  Where  are  your  wits,  man?" 

He  tapped  Archie's  head  smartly  with  his 
knuckles,  and  passed  on,  the  smile  still  wrinkling 


286  The  Swindler 

his  pale  eyes  and  the  forehead  above  them  from 
which  the  hair  was  steadily  receding  towards  the 
top  of  his  skull. 

Certainly  the  gods  had  not  been  kind  to  him  in 
the  matter  of  personal  beauty,  but  a  certain  charm 
he  possessed,  notwithstanding,  which  procured  for 
him  a  well-grounded  popularity. 

"You'll  let  me  wish  you  luck,  anyway,  Riving- 
ton, "  one  man  said. 

•'Rather!"  echoed  Archie.  "I  hope  you'll  ask 
me  to  your  weddin  V 

"All  of  you, "  said  the  Poor  Relation  generously. 
"It's  going  to  be  a  mountainous  affair,  and  Archie 
shall  officiate  as  best  man. " 

"When  is  it  to  take  place?"  some  one  asked. 

"Oh,  very  soon — very  soon  indeed;  actual  date 
not  yet  fixed.  St.  George's,  Hanover  Square,  of 
course;  and  afterwards  at  Lady  Florence  Card- 
well's  charming  mansion  in  Park  Lane.  It'll  be 
a  thrilling  performance  altogether."  The  Poor 
Relation  beamed  impartially  upon  his  well-wishers. 
He  seemed  to  be  hugely  enjoying  himself. 

"And  whither  will  the  happy  pair  betake  them- 
selves after  the  reception?"  questioned  Archie. 

"That,  my  dear  fellow,  is  not  yet  quite  decided. " 

"I  expect  you'll  go  for  a  motor  tour,"  said 
Bray. 

But  Rivington  at  once  shook  his  head. 

"  Nothing  of  that  sort.  Couldn't  afford  it.  No, 
we  shall  do  something  cheaper  and  more  original 
than  that.  I've  got  an  old  caravan  somewhere; 


The  Knight  Errant  287 

that  might  do.  Rather  a  bright  idea,  eh, 
Archie?" 

"Depends  on  the  bride,"  said  Archie,  looking 
decidedly  dubious. 

"Eh?  Think  so?  We  shall  have  to  talk  it 
over."  The  Poor  Relation  subsided  into  a  chair, 
and  stretched  himself  with  a  sigh.  "There  are 
such  a  lot  of  little  things  to  be  considered  when 
you  begin  to  get  married,"  he  murmured,  as  he 
pulled  out  his  pipe. 

"Some  one  wanting  you  on  the  telephone,  sir," 
announced  one  of  the  club  attendants  at  his  elbow, 
a  few  minutes  later. 

"Eh?  Who  is  it?  Tell  'em  I  can't  be  bothered. 
No,  don't.  I'm  coming." 

Laboriously  he  hoisted  himself  out  of  his  chair, 
regretfully  he  knocked  the  glowing  tobacco  out  of 
his  pipe,  heavy-footed  he  betook  him  to  the  tele- 
phone. 

"Hullo!" 

"Oh!"  said  a  woman's  voice.     "Is  that  you?" 

"Yes.     Who  do  you  want?" 

"Mr.  Rivington — Cecil  Mordaunt  Rivington. " 
The  syllables  came  with  great  distinctness.  They 
seemed  to  have  an  anxious  ring. 

"Yes,  I'm  here,"  said  the  owner  of  the  name. 
"Who  are  you?" 

"I'm  Ernestine.     Can  you  hear  me?" 

"First-rate!    What  can  I  do  for  you?" 

There  was  a  pause,  then: 

"I  had  your  letter,"  said  the  voice,  "and  I'm 


288  The  Swindler 

tremendously  grateful  to  you.  I  was  afraid  you 
might  be  vexed. " 

"Not  a  bit  of  it,"  said  Rivington  genially. 
"Anything  to  oblige." 

"Thanks  so  much!  It  was  great  cheek,  I  know, 
but  I've  had  such  a  horrid  fright.  I  couldn't 
think  of  any  other  way  out,  and  you  were  the  only 
possible  person  that  occurred  to  me.  You  were 
very  kind  to  me  once,  a  long  time  ago.  It's 
awfully  decent  of  you  not  to  mind. " 

"Please  don't!"  said  Rivington.  "That  sort 
of  thing  always  upsets  me.  Look  here,  can't  we 
meet  somewhere  and  talk  things  over?  It  would 
simplify  matters  enormously. " 

"Yes,  it  would.  That  is  what  I  want  to  arrange. 
Could  you  manage  some  time  this  afternoon? 
Please  say  you  can!" 

"Of  course  I  can,"  said  Rivington  promptly. 
"What  place?" 

"I  don't  know.  It  must  be  somewhere  right 
away  where  no  one  will  know  us. " 

"How  would  the  city  do?  That's  nice  and 
private." 

A  faint  laugh  came  to  his  ear.  "Yes;  but 
where?" 

Rivington  briefly  considered. 

"St.  Paul's  Cathedral,  under  the  dome,  three 
o'clock.  Will  that  do?" 

"Yes,  I'll  be  there.     You  won't  fail?" 

"Not  if  I  live,"  said  Rivington.  "Anything 
else?" 


The  Knight  Errant  289 

" No;  only  a  million  thanks!  I'll  explain  every- 
thing when  we  meet. " 

"All  right.     Good-bye!" 

As  he  hung  up  the  receiver,  a  heavy  frown  drove 
the  kindliness  out  of  his  face. 

"What  have  they  been  doing  to  the  child?"  he 
said.  "It's  a  pretty  desperate  step  for  a  girl  to 
take.  At  least  it  might  be,  it  would  be,  if  I  were 
any  one  else. " 

Suddenly  the  smile  came  back  and  drew  afresh 
the  kindly,  humorous  lines  about  his  eyes. 

"She  seems  to  remember  me  rather  well,"  he 
murmured.  "  She  certainly  was  a  jolly  little  kid. " 

III 

THE  LADY  IN  DISTRESS 

The  afternoon  sunlight  streamed  golden  through 
the  cathedral  as  Cecil  Rivington  passed  into  its  im- 
mense silence.  He  moved  with  quiet  and  leisurely 
tread;  it  was  not  his  way  to  hurry.  The  great 
clock  was  just  booming  the  hour. 

There  were  not  many  people  about.  A  few  stray 
footsteps  wandered  through  the  stillness,  a  few 
vague  whispers  floated  to  and  fro.  But  the  peace 
of  the  place  lay  like  a  spell,  a  dream  atmosphere 
in  which  every  sound  was  hushed. 

Rivington  passed  down  the  nave  till  he  reached 
the  central  space  under  the  great  dome.  There  he 
paused,  and  gazed  straight  upwards  into  the  giddy 
height  above  him. 


290  The  Swindler 

As  he  stood  thus  calmly  contemplative,  a  light 
step  sounded  on  the  pavement  close  to  him,  and  a 
low  voice  spoke. 

"Oh,  here  you  are!  It's  good  of  you  to  be  so 
punctual. " 

He  lowered  his  eyes  slowly  as  if  he  were  afraid  of 
giving  them  a  shock,  and  focussed  them  upon  the 
speaker. 

"I  am  never  late,"  he  remarked.  "And  I  am 
never  early. " 

Then  he  smiled  kindly  and  held  out  his  hand. 

"  Hullo,  Chirpy ! "  he  said.  "  It  is  Chirpy,  isn't 
it?" 

"Yes,  it  is  Chirpy.  But  I  never  expected  you  to 
remember  that. " 

"I  remember  most  things,"  said  Rivington. 

His  pale  eyes  dwelt  contemplatively  on  the  girl 
before  him.  She  was  very  slim  and  young,  and 
plainly  very  nervous.  There  was  no  beauty  about 
Ernestine  Cardwell,  only  a  certain  wild  grace 
peculiarly  charming,  and  a  quick  wit  that  some 
people  found  too  shrewd.  When  she  laughed  she 
was  a  child.  Her  laugh  was  irresistible,  and  there 
was  magic  in  her  smile,  a  baffling,  elusive  magic  too 
transient  to  be  defined.  Very  sudden  and  very 
fleeting  was  her  smile.  Rivington  saw  it  for  an 
instant  only  as  she  met  his  look . 

"  Do  you  know, "  she  said,  colouring  deeply.  "  I 
thought  you  were  much  older  than  you  are. " 

"I  am  fifty,"  said  Rivington. 

But  she  shook  her  head. 


The  Knight  Errant  291 

"  It  is  very  good  of  you  to  say  so. " 

' '  Not  at  all, ' '  smiled  Rivington.  ' '  You,  I  fancy, 
must  be  about  twenty-one.  How  long  since  the 
bull  episode?" 

"Oh,  do  you  remember  that,  tog? "  She  uttered 
a  faint  laugh. 

"Vividly,"  said  Rivington.  "I  have  a  lively 
memory  of  the  fleetness  of  your  retreat  and  the 
violence  of  your  embrace  when  the  danger  was 
over." 

She  laughed  again. 

"  It  was  years  and  years  ago — quite  six,  I  should 
think." 

1 ' Quite,  I  should  say, ' '  agreed  Rivington.  "But 
we  have  met  since  then,  surely?" 

"Oh  yes,  casually.  But  we  are  not  in  the  same 
set,  are  we?  Some  one  once  told  me  you  were  very 
Bohemian." 

"Who  was  it?  I  should  like  to  shoot  him!'* 
said  Rivington. 

At  which  she  laughed  again,  and  then  threw  a 
guilty  glance  around. 

"I  don't  think  this  is  a  very  good  place  for  a 
talk." 

"Not  if  you  want  to  do  much  laughing,"  said 
Rivington.  "Come  along  to  the  tea-shop  round 
the  corner.  No  one  will  disturb  us  there. " 

They  turned  side  by  side,  and  began  to  walk 
back.  The  girl  moved  quickly  as  though  not 
wholly  at  her  ease.  She  glanced  at  her  companion 
once  or  twice,  but  it  was  not  till  they  finally 


292  The  Swindler 

emerged  at  the  head  of  the  steps  that  she 
spoke. 

11 1  am  wondering  more  and  more  how  I  ever  had 
the  impertinence  to  do  it." 

"There's  no  great  risk  in  asking  a  poor  relation 
to  do  anything,"  said  Rivington  consolingly. 

"Ah,  but  I  did  it  without  asking. "  There  was 
an  unmistakable  note  of  distress  in  her  quick 
rejoinder.  "I  was  at  my  wits'  end.  I  didn't 
know  what  on  earth  to  do.  And  it  came  to  me 
suddenly  like  an  inspiration.  But  I  wish  I  hadn't 
now,  with  all  my  heart. " 

Rivington  turned  his  mild  eyes  upon  her. 

"  My  dear  child,  don't  be  silly ! "  he  said.  "  I  am 
delighted  to  be  of  use  for  a  change.  I  don't  do 
much  worth  the  doing,  being  more  or  less  of  a 
loafer.  It  is  good  for  me  to  exercise  my  ingenuity 
now  and  then.  It  only  gets  rusty  lying  by." 

She  put  out  her  hand  impulsively  and  squeezed 
his. 

"You're  awfully  nice  to  me,"  she  said.  "It's 
only  a  temporary  expedient,  of  course.  I  couldn't 
ask  you  first — there  wasn't  time.  But  I'll  set  you 
free  as  soon  as  I  possibly  can.  Have  people  been 
talking  much?" 

"Rather!  They  are  enjoying  it  immensely.  I 
have  had  to  go  ahead  like  steam.  I've  even  engaged 
a  best  man." 

She  threw  him  a  startled  look. 

"Oh,  but " 

"No,  don't  be  alarmed,"  he  said  reassuringly. 


The  Knight  Errant  293 

"  It's  best  to  take  the  bull  by  the  horns,  believe  me. 
The  more  fuss  you  make  at  the  outset,  the  quicker 
it  will  be  over.  People  will  be  taking  us  for  granted 
in  a  week. " 

"You  think  so?"  she  said  doubtfully.  "I 
can't  think  what  mother  will  say.  I  don't  dare 
think." 

"Is  your  mother  away,  then?" 

"Yes,  in  Paris  for  a  few  days.  I  couldn't  have 
done  it  if  she  had  been  at  home.  I  don't  know 
quite  what  I  should  have  done."  She  broke  off 
with  a  sudden  shudder.  "I've  had  a  horrid 
fright, "  she  said  again. 

"Come  and  have  some  tea,"  suggested  Riving- 
ton  practically. 

IV 

A   COUNCIL  OF  WAR 

They  had  tea  in  a  secluded  corner,  well  re- 
moved from  all  prying  eyes.  Gradually,  as  the 
minutes  passed,  the  girl's  manner  became  more 
assured. 

When  at  length  he  leaned  his  elbows  on  the  table 
and  said,  "Tell  me  all  about  it,"  she  was  ready. 

She  leaned  towards  him,  and  dropped  her  voice. 

"You  know  Mr.  Dinghra  Singh?  I'm  sure  you 
do.  Every  one  does. " 

"Yes,  I  know  him.  They  call  him  Nana  Sahib 
at  the  clubs." 

She  shuddered  again. 


294  The  Swindler 

"I  used  to  like  him  rather.  He  has  a  wicked 
sort  of  fascination,  you  know.  But  I  loathe  him 
now;  I  abhor  him.  And — I  am  terrified  at  him." 

She  stopped.  Rivington  said  nothing.  There 
was  not  much  expression  in  his  eyes.  Without 
seeming  to  scan  very  closely,  they  rested  on  her 
face. 

After  a  moment,  in  a  whisper,  she  continued : 

"He  follows  me  about  perpetually.  I  meet  him 
everywhere.  He  looks  at  me  with  horrid  eyes.  I 
know,  without  seeing,  the  instant  he  comes  into 
the  room. " 

She  paused.     Rivington  still  said  nothing. 

"He  is  very  rich,  you  know, "  she  went  on,  with 
an  effort.  ' '  He  will  be  Rajah  of  Ferosha  some  day. 
And,  of  course,  every  one  is  very  nice  to  him  in  con- 
sequence. I  never  was  that.  Don't  think  it! 
But  I  used  to  laugh  at  him.  It's  my  way.  Most 
men  don't  like  it.  No  Englishmen  do  that  I  know 
of.  But  he — this  man — is,  somehow,  different 
from  every  one  else.  And — can  you  believe  it? — 
he  is  literally  stalking  me.  He  sends  me  presents 
— exquisite  things,  jewellery,  that  my  mother 
won't  let  me  return.  I  asked  him  not  to  once,  and 
he  laughed  in  my  face.  He  has  a  horrible  laugh. 
He  is  half-English,  too.  I  believe  that  makes  him 
worse.  If  he  were  an  out-and-out  native  he  wouldn't 
be  quite  so  revolting.  Of  course,  I  see  my  mother's 
point  of  view.  Naturally,  she  would  like  me  to  be 
a  princess,  and,  as  she  says,  I  can't  pick  and  choose. 
Which  is  true,  you  know,"  she  put  in  quaintly, 


The  Knight  Errant  295 

"for  men  don't  like  me  as  a  rule;  at  least,  not  the 
marrying  sort.  I  rather  think  I'm  not  the  marry- 
ing sort  myself.  I've  never  been  in  love,  never 
Dnce.  But  I  couldn't — I  could  not — marry  Din- 
ghra.  But  it's  no  good  telling  him  so.  The  cooler 
I  am  to  him  the  hotter  he  seems  to  get,  till — till 
I'm  beginning  to  wonder  how  I  can  possibly  get 
away. " 

The  note  of  distress  sounded  again  in  her  voice. 
Very  quietly,  as  though  in  answer  to  it,  Rivington 
reached  out  a  hand  and  laid  it  over  hers. 

But  his  eyes  never  varied  as  he  said : 

"Won't  you  finish?" 

She  bent  her  head. 

"You'll  think  me  foolish  to  be  so  easily  soared, " 
she  said,  a  slight  catch  in  her  voice.  "  Most  women 
manage  to  take  care  of  themselves.  I  ought  to  be 
able  to. " 

"Please  go  on,"  he  said.  "I  don't  think  you 
foolish  at  all. " 

She  continued,  without  raising  her  eyes : 

' '  Things  have  been  getting  steadily  worse.  Last 
week  at  Lady  Villar's  ball  I  had  to  dance  with  him 
four  times.  I  tried  to  refuse,  but  mother  was 
there.  She  wouldn't  hear  of  it.  You  know" — 
appealingly — "she  is  so  experienced.  She  knows 
how  to  insist  without  seeming  to,  so  that,  unless 
one  makes  a  scene,  one  has  to  yield.  I  thought 
each  dance  that  he  meant  to  propose,  but  I  just 
managed  to  steer  clear.  I  felt  absolutely  delirious 
the  whole  time.  Most  people  thought  I  was 


296  The  Swindler 

enjoying  it.  Old  Lady  Phillips  told  me  I  was 
looking  quite  handsome."  She  laughed  a  little. 
"Well,  after  all,  there  seemed  to  be  no  escape, 
and  I  got  desperate.  It  was  like  a  dreadful 
nightmare.  I  went  to  the  opera  one  night, 
and  he  came  and  sat  close  behind  me  and  talked  in 
whispers.  When  he  wasn't  talking  I  knew  that 
he  was  watching  me — gloating  over  me.  It  was 
horrible — horrible!  Last  night  I  wouldn't  go  out 
with  the  others.  I  simply  couldn't  face  it.  And — 
do  you  know — he  came  to  me!"  She  began  to 
breathe  quickly,  unevenly.  The  hands  that  lay  in 
Rivington's  quiet  grasp  moved  with  nervous  rest- 
lessness. "There  was  no  one  in  the  house  besides 
the  servants,"  she  said.  "What  could  I  do?  He 
was  admitted  before  I  knew.  Of  course,  I  ought 
to  have  refused  to  see  him,  but  he  was  very  insist- 
ent, and  I  thought  it  a  mistake  to  seem  afraid.  So 
I  went  to  him — I  went  to  him. " 

The  words  came  with  a  rush.  She  began  to 
tremble  all  over.  She  was  almost  sobbing. 

Rivington's  fingers  closed  very  slowly,  barely 
perceptibly,  till  his  grip  was  warm  and  close. 
"Take  your  time,"  he  said  gently.  "It's  all 
right,  you  know — all  right." 

"Thank  you,"  she  whispered.  "Well,  I  saw 
him.  He  was  in  a  dangerous — a  wild-beast  mood. 
He  told  me  I  needn't  try  to  run  away  any  longer, 
for  I  was  caught.  He  said — and  I  know  it  was 
true — that  he  had  obtained  my  mother's  full  ap- 
proval and  consent.  He  swore  that  he  wouldn't 


The  Knight  Errant  297 

leave  me  until  I  promised  to  many  him.  He  was 
terrible,  with  a  sort  of  suppressed  violence  i^at 
appalled  me.  I  tried  not  to  let  him  see  how  ter- 
rified I  was.  I  kept  quite  quiet  and  temperate 
for  a  long  time.  I  told  him  I  could  never,  never 
marry  him.  And  each  time  I  said  it,  he  smiled 
and  showed  his  teeth.  He  was  like  a  tiger.  His 
eyes  were  fiendish.  But  he,  too,  kept  quiet  for 
ever  so  long.  He  tried  persuasion,  he  tried  flat- 
tery. Oh,  it  was  loathsome — loathsome!  And 
then  quite  suddenly  he  turned  savage,  and — and 
threatened  me. " 

She  glanced  nervously  into  Rivington's  face, 
but  it  told  her  nothing.  He  looked  merely 
thoughtful. 

She  went  on  more  quietly. 

"That  drove  me  desperate,  and  I  exclaimed, 
hardly  thinking,  'I  wouldn't  marry  you  if  you 
were  the  only  man  in  the  world — which  you  are 
not!'  'Oh!'  he  said  at  once.  'There  is  another 
man,  is  there?'  He  didn't  seem  to  have  thought 
that  possible.  And  I — I  was  simply  clutching  at 
straws — I  told  him  'Yes.'  It  was  a  lie,  you  know 
— the  first  deliberate  lie  I  think  I  have  ever  told 
since  I  came  to  years  of  discretion.  There  isn't 
another  man,  or  likely  to  be.  That's  just  the 
trouble.  If  there  were,  my  mother  wouldn't  be  so 
angry  with  me  for  refusing  this  chance  of  marriage, 
brilliant  though  she  thinks  it.  But  I  was  quite 
desperate.  Do  you  think  it  was  very  wrong  of 
me?" 


298  The  Swindler 

"  No, "  said  Rivington  deliberately,  "  I  don't.  I 
lie  myself — when  necessary." 

"He  was  furious,"  she  said.  "He  swore  that 
no  other  man  should  stand  in  his  way.  And  then 
— I  don't  know  how  it  was ;  perhaps  I  wasn't  very 
convincing — he  began  to  suspect  that  I  had  lied. 
That  drove  me  into  a  corner.  I  didn't  know  what 
to  say  or  do.  And  then,  quite  suddenly,  in  my 
extremity,  I  thought  of  you.  I  really  don't  know 
what  made  me.  I  didn't  so  much  as  know  if  you 
were  in  town.  And  in  a  flash  I  thought  of  sending 
that  announcement  to  the  paper.  That  would 
convince  him  if  nothing  else  would,  and  it  would 
mean  at  least  a  temporary  respite.  It  was  a  mad 
thing  to  do,  I  know.  But  I  thought  you  were 
elderly  and  level-headed  and  a  confirmed  bachelor 
and — and  a  sort  of  cousin  as  well " 

"To  the  tenth  degree,"  murmured  Rivington. 

"So  I  told  him,"  she  hurried  on,  unheeding, 
"  that  we  were  engaged,  and  it  was  just  going  to  be 
announced.  When  he  heard  that,  he  lost  his  head. 
I  really  think  he  was  mad  for  the  moment.  He 
sprang  straight  at  me  like  a  wild  beast,  and  I — I 
simply  turned  and  fled.  I'm  pretty  nimble,  you 
know,  when — when  there  are  mad  bulls  about." 
Her  quick  smile  flashed  across  her  face  and  was 
gone.  " That's  all, "  she  said.  "I  tore  up  to  my 
room,  and  scribbled  that  paragraph  straight  away. 
I  dared  not  wait  for  anything.  And  then  I  wrote 
to  you.  You  had  my  letter  with  the  paper  this 
morning." 


The  Knight  Errant  299 

"Yes,  I  had  them. "  Rivington  spoke  absently. 
She  had  a  feeling  that  his  eyes  were  fixed  upon  her 
without  seeing  her.  "So  that's  all,  is  it?"  he  said 
slowly. 

Again  nervously  her  hands  moved  beneath  his. 

"I've  been  very  headlong  and  idiotic,"  she  said 
impulsively.  "I've  put  you  in  an  intolerable 
position.  You  must  write  at  once  and  contradict 
it  in  the  next  issue. " 

"Do  you  mind  not  talking  nonsense  for  a 
minute?"  he  said  mildly.  "I  shall  see  my  way 
directly. " 

She  dropped  into  instant  silence,  sitting  tense 
and  mute,  scarcely  even  breathing,  while  the  pale 
blue  eyes  opposite  remained  steadily  and  unblink- 
ingly  fixed  upon  her  face. 

After  a  few  moments  he  spoke. 

"When  does  your  mother  return?" 

"To-morrow  morning."  She  hesitated  for  a 
second;  then,  "Of  course  she  will  be  furious,"  she 
said.  "  You  won't  be  able  to  argue  with  her.  No 
one  can." 

Rivington's  eyes  looked  faintly  quizzical. 

"  I  don't  propose  to  try, "  he  said.  "  She  is,  as  I 
well  know,  an  adept  in  the  gentle  art  of  snubbing. 
And  I  am  no  match  for  her  there.  She  has,  more- 
over, a  rooted  objection  to  poor  relations,  for  which 
I  can  hardly  blame  her — a  prejudice  which,  how- 
ever, I  am  pleased  to  note  that  you  do  not 
share. " 

He  smiled  at  her  with  the  words,  and  she  flashed 


3oo  The  Swindler 

him  a  quick,  answering  smile,  though  her  lips  were 
quivering. 

"I  am  not  a  bit  like  my  mother, "  she  said.  "I 
was  always  dad's  girl — while  he  lived.  It  was  he 
who  called  me  Chirpy.  No  one  else  ever  did — but 
you." 

"A  great  piece  of  presumption  on  my  part, "  said 
Rivington. 

"No.  I  like  you  to.  It  makes  you  seem  like  an 
old  friend,  which  is  what  I  need  just  now,  more 
than  anything." 

"Quite  so,"  said  Rivington.  "That  qualifies 
me  to  advise,  I  suppose.  I  hope  you  won't  be 
shocked  at  what  I  am  going  to  suggest. " 

She  met  his  eyes  with  complete  confidence.  "I 
shall  do  it  whatever  it  is, "  sl_e  said. 

"Don't  be  rash,"  he  rejoined.  "It  entails  a 
sacrifice.  But  it  is  the  only  thing  that  occurs  to 
me  for  the  moment.  I  think  if  you  are  wise  you 
will  leave  London  to-night." 

"Leave  London!"  she  echoed,  looking  startled. 

"Yes.  Just  drop  out  for  a  bit,  cut  everything, 
and  give  this  business  a  chance  to  blow  over. 
Leave  a  note  behind  for  mamma  when  she  arrives, 
and  tell  her  why.  She'll  understand. " 

"But — but — how  can  I?  Dinghra  will  only 
follow  me,  and  I  shall  be  more  at  his  mercy  than 
ever  in  the  country." 

"If  he  finds  you, "  said  Rivington. 

"But  mother  would  tell  him  directly  where  to 
look." 


The  Knight  Errant  301 

"  If  she  knew  herself, "  he  returned  drily. 

"Oh!"  She  stared  at  him  with  eyes  of  grave 
doubt.  "But, "  she  said,  after  a  moment,  " I  have 
no  money.  I  can't  live  on  nothing. " 

"I  do,"   said  Rivington.     "You  can  do  the 


same." 


She  shook  her  head  instantly,  though  she  smiled. 

"Not  on  the  same  nothing,  Mr.  Rivington." 

He  took  his  hand  abruptly  from  hers. 

11  Look  here,  Chirpy,"  he  said;  "don't  be  a 
snob!" 

"I'm  not,"  she  protested. 

"Yes,  you  are.  It's  atrocious  to  be  put  in  my 
place  by  a  chit  like  you.  I  won't  put  up  with  it. " 
He  frowned  at  her  ferociously.  "You  weren't 
above  asking  my  help,  but  if  you  are  above  taking 
it — I've  done  with  you. " 

"Oh,  not  really ! "  she  pleaded.  "It  was  foolish 
of  me,  I  admit,  because  you  really  are  one  of  the 
family.  Please  don't  scowl  so.  It  doesn't  suit 
your  style  of  beauty  in  the  least,  and  I  am  sure  you 
wouldn't  like  to  spoil  a  good  impression. " 

But  he  continued  to  frown  uncompromisingly, 
till  she  stretched  out  a  conciliatory  hand  to  him 
across  the  table. 

"Don't  be  cross,  Knight  Errant!  I  know  you 
are  only  pretending." 

"Then  don't  do  it  again, "  he  said,  relaxing,  and 
pinching  her  fingers  somewhat  heartlessly.  "I'm 
horribly  sensitive  on  some  points.  As  I  was  say- 
ing, it  won't  hurt  you  very  badly  to  live  on  nothing 


302  The  Swindler 

for  a  bit,  even  if  you  are  a  lady  of  extravagant 
tastes." 

"Oh,  but  I  can  work, "  she  said  eagerly.  "I  can 
change  my  name,  and  go  into  a  shop. " 

"Of  course,"  he  said,  mildly  sarcastic.  "You 
will  doubtless  find  your  vocation  sooner  or  later. 
But  that  is  not  the  present  point.  Now,  listen! 
In  the  county  of  Hampshire  is  a  little  place  called 
Weatherbroom — quite  a  little  place,  just  a  hamlet 
and  a  post-office.  Just  out  of  the  hamlet  is  a  mill 
with  a  few  acres  of  farm  land  attached.  It's 
awfully  picturesque — a  regular  artists'  place. 
By  the  way,  are  you  an  artist?" 

"Oh,  no.     I  sketch  a  little,  but " 

"That'll  do.  You  are  not  an  artist,  but  you 
sketch.  Then  you  won't  be  quite  stranded.  It's 
very  quiet,  you  know.  There's  no  society.  Only 
the  miller  and  his  wife,  and  now  and  then  the  land- 
lord— an  out-at-elbows  loafer  who  drifts  about 
town  and,  very  occasionally,  plays  knight  errant  to 
ladies  in  distress.  There  isn't  even  a  curate.  Can 
you  possibly  endure  it?" 

She  raised  her  head  and  laughed — a  sweet,  spon- 
taneous laugh,  inexpressibly  gay. 

"Oh,  you  are  good — just  good!  It's  the  only 
word  that  describes  you.  I  always  felt  you  were.  I 
didn't  know  you  were  a  landed  proprietor,  though. " 

"  In  a  very  small  way, "  he  assured  her. 

"How  nice!"  she  said  eagerly.  "Yes,  I'll  go. 
I  shall  love  it.  But " — her  face  falling —  "what  of 
you?  Shall  you  stay  in  town?" 


The  Knight  Errant  303 

"And  face  the  music,"  said  the  Poor  Relation, 
with  his  most  benign  smile.  "That  is  my  inten- 
tion. Don't  pity  me!  I  shall  enjoy  it." 

"Is  it  possible?"     Again  she  looked  doubtful. 

"Of  course  it's  possible.  I  enjoy  a  good  row 
now  and  then.  It  keeps  me  in  condition.  I'll 
come  down  and  see  you  some  day,  and  tell  you  all 
about  it. "  He  glanced  at  his  watch.  "I  think  we 
ought  to  be  moving.  We  will  discuss  arrange- 
ments as  we  go.  I  must  send  a  wire  to  Mrs. 
Perkiss,  and  tell  her  you  will  go  down  by  the 
seven-thirty.  I  will  see  you  into  the  train  at  this 
end,  and  they  will  meet  you  at  the  other  with  the 
cart.  It's  three  miles  from  the  railway. " 

As  they  passed  out  together,  he  added  medita- 
tively, "I  think  you'll  like  the  old  mill,  Chirpy. 
It's  thatched." 

"I'm  sure  I  shall,"  she  answered  earnestly. 


THE    KNIGHT    ERRANT   TAKES    THE    FIELD 

Rivington  returned  to  his  rooms  that  night, 
after  dining  at  a  restaurant,  with  a  pleasing 
sense  of  having  accomplished  something  that  had 
been  well  worth  the  doing.  He  chuckled  to  him- 
self a  little  as  he  walked.  It  was  a  decidedly 
humorous  situation. 

He  was  met  at  the  top  of  the  stairs  by  his  ser- 
vant, a  sharp-faced  lad  of  fifteen  whom  he  had 


304  The  Swindler 

picked  out  of  the  dock  of  a  police-court  some 
months  before,  and  who  was  devoted  to  him  in 
consequence. 

"There's  a  gentleman  waitin'  for  you  sir; 
wouldn't  take  'No'  for  an  answer;  been  'ere  best 
part  of  an  hour.  Name  of  Sin,  sir.  Looks  like  a 
foreigner." 

"Eh?"  The  blue  eyes  widened  for  a  moment, 
then  smiled  approbation.  "Very  appropriate," 
murmured  Rivington.  "All  right,  Tommy;  I 
know  the  gentleman. " 

He  was  still  smiling  as  he  entered  his  room. 

A  slim,  dark  man  turned  swiftly  from  its  farther 
end  to  meet  him.  He  had  obviously  been  prowl- 
ing up  and  down. 

"Mr.  Rivington?"  he  said  interrogatively. 

Rivington  bowed. 

"Mr.  Dinghra  Singh?"  he  returned. 

"Have  you  seen  me  before?" 

"At  a  distance — several  times." 

"Ah!"  The  Indian  drew  himself  up  with  a 
certain  arrogance,  but  his  narrow  black  moustache 
did  not  hide  the  fact  that  his  lips  were  twitch- 
ing with  excitement.  His  dark  eyes  shone  like 
the  eyes  of  a  beast,  green  and  ominous.  "  But  we 
have  never  spoken.  I  thought  not.  Now,  Mr. 
Rivington,  will  you  permit  me  to  come  at  once  to 
business?" 

He  spoke  without  a  trace  of  foreign  accent.  He 
stood  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  facing  Rivington, 
in  a  commanding  attitude. 


The  Knight  Errant  305 

Rivington  took  a  seat  on  the  edge  of  the  table. 
He  was  still  faintly  smiling. 

"Go  ahead,  sir,"  he  said.  "Won't  you  sit 
down?" 

But  Dinghra  preferred  to  stand. 

"I  am  presuming  that  you  are  the  Mr.  Cecil 
Mordaunt  Rivington  whose  engagement  to  Miss 
Ernestine  Cardwell  was  announced  in  this  morn- 
ing's paper,"  he  said,  speaking  quickly  but  very 
distinctly. 

"The  same, "  said  Rivington.  He  added  with  a 
shrug  of  the  shoulders,  "A  somewhat  high-sound- 
ing name  for  such  a  humble  citizen  as  myself,  but 
it  was  not  of  my  own  choosing. " 

Dinghra  ignored  the  remark.  He  was  very 
plainly  in  no  mood  for  trivialities. 

"And  the  engagement  really  exists?"  he  ques- 
tioned. 

The  Englishman's  brows  went  up. 

"Of  course  it  exists." 

"Ah!"  It  was  like  a  snarl.  The  white  teeth 
gleamed  for  a  moment.  "I  had  no  idea,"  Din- 
ghra said,  still  with  the  same  feverish  rapidity, 
"that  I  had  a  rival." 

"Are  we  rivals?"  said  Rivington,  amiably  re- 
gretful. "It's  the  first  I  have  heard  of  it." 

"You  must  have  known!"  The  green  glare 
suddenly  began  to  flicker  with  a  ruddy  tinge  as  of 
flame.  "Every  one  knew  that  I  was  after  her." 

"Oh  yes,  I  knew  that,"  said  Rivington.  "But 
— pardon  me  if  I  fail  to  see  that  that  fact  con- 


306  The  Swindler 

stitutes  any  rivalry  between  us.  We  were  engaged 
long  before  she  met  you.  We  have  been  engaged 
for  years." 

"For  years!"  Dinghra  took  a  sudden  step  for- 
ward. He  looked  as  if  he  were  about  to  spring  at 
the  Englishman's  throat. 

But  Rivington  remained  quite  unmoved,  all 
unsuspecting,  lounging  on  the  edge  of  the  table. 

"Yes,  for  years,"  he  repeated.  "But  we  have 
kept  it  to  ourselves  till  now.  Even  Lady  Florence 
had  no  notion  of  it.  There  was  nothing  to  be 
gained  by  talking.  It  was  a  case  of — "  He  dug 
his  hands  into  his  trousers  pockets  and  pulled 
them  inside  out  with  an  eloquent  gesture.  "So, 
of  course,  there  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  wait." 

"Then  why  have  you  published  the  engagement 
now?"  demanded  Dinghra. 

Rivington  smiled. 

"Because  we  are  tired  of  waiting,"  he  said. 

"You  are  in  a  position  to  many,  then?  You 
are—" 

"  I  am  as  poor  as  a  church  mouse,  if  you  want  to 
know,"  said  Rivington. 

"  And  you  will  marry  on  nothing?" 

"I  dare  say  we  sha'n't  starve,"  said  Rivington 
optimistically. 

"Ah!"  Again  that  beast-like  snarl.  There 
was  no  green  glare  left  in  the  watching  eyes — only 
red,  leaping  flame.  "And — you  like  poverty?" 
asked  the  Indian  in  the  tone  of  one  seeking  infor- 
mation. 


The  Knight  Errant  307 

"I  detest  it,"  said  Rivington,  with  unusual 
energy. 

Dinghra  drew  a  step  nearer,  noiselessly,  like  a 
cat.  His  lips  began  to  smile.  He  could  not 
have  been  aware  of  the  tigerish  ferocity  of  his 
eyes. 

"I  should  like  to  make  a  bargain  with  you, 
Mr.  Rivington, "  he  said. 

Rivington,  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  looked  him 
over  with  a  cool  appraising  eye.  He  said  nothing 
at  all. 

"  This  girl,"  said  Dinghra,  his  voice  suddenly 
very  soft  and  persuasive,  "  she  is  worth  a  good  deal 
to  you — doubtless?" 

"Doubtless,"  said  Rivington. 

"She  is  worth— what?" 

Rivington  stared  uncomprehendingly. 

With  a  slight,  contemptuous  gesture  the  Indian 
proceeded  to  explain. 

"  She  is  worth  a  good  deal  to  me  too — more  than 
you  would  think.  Her  mother  also  desires  a 
marriage  between  us.  I  am  asking  you,  Mr. 
Rivington,  to  give  her  up,  and  to — name  your 
price. " 

"The  devil  you  are!"  said  Rivington;  but  he 
said  it  without  violence.  He  still  sat  motion- 
less, his  hands  in  his  pockets,  surveying  his 
visitor. 

"  I  am  rich, "  Dinghra  said,  still  in  those  purring 
accents.  "I  am  prepared  to  make  you  a  wealthy 
man  for  the  rest  of  your  life.  You  will  be  able  to 


308  The  Swindler 

marry,  if  you  desire  to  do  so,  and  live  in  ease  and 
luxury.  Come,  Mr.  Rivington,  what  do  you  say 
to  it?  You  detest  poverty.  Now  is  your  chance, 
then.  You  need  never  be  poor  again. " 

"You're  uncommonly  generous,"  said  Riving- 
ton. "But  is  the  lady  to  have  no  say  in  the 
matter?  Or  has  she  already  spoken?" 

Dinghra  looked  supremely  contemptuous. 

"The  matter  is  entirely  between  you  and  me," 
he  said. 

1 '  Oh ! "     Rivington  became  reflective. 

The  Indian  crossed  his  arms  and  waited. 

"Well,"  Rivington  said  at  length,  "I  will  name 
my  price,  since  you  desire  it,  but  I  warn  you  it's  a 
fairly  stiff  one.  You  won't  like  it. " 

"Speak!"  said  Dinghra  eagerly.  His  eyes 
literally  blazed  at  the  Englishman's  imperturbable 
face. 

Slowly  Rivington  took  his  hands  from  his 
pockets.  Slowly  he  rose.  For  a  moment  he 
seemed  to  tower  almost  threateningly  over  the 
lesser  man,  then  carelessly  he  suffered  his  limbs  to 
relax. 

"The  price,"  he  said,  "is  that  you  come  to  me 
every  day  for  a  fortnight  for  as  sound  a  licking  as  I 
am  in  a  condition  to  administer.  I  will  release 
Miss  Ernestine  Cardwell  for  that,  and  that  alone. " 
He  paused.  "And  I  think  at  the  end  of  my  treat- 
ment that  you  will  stand  a  considerably  better 
chance  of  winning  her  favour  than  you  do  at  pre- 
sent, "  he  added,  faintly  smiling. 


The  Knight  Errant  309 

An  awful  silence  followed  his  words.  Dinghra 
stood  as  though  transfixed  for  the  space  of  twenty 
seconds.  Then,  without  word  or  warning  of  any 
sort,  with  a  single  spring  inexpressibly  bestial,  he 
leapt  at  Rivington's  throat. 

But  Rivington  was  ready  for  him.  With  incred- 
ible swiftness  he  stooped  and  caught  his  assailant 
as  he  sprang.  There  followed  a  brief  and  furious 
struggle,  and  then  the  Indian  found  himself  slowly 
but  irresistibly  forced  backwards  across  the 
Englishman's  knee.  He  had  a  vision  of  pale  blue 
eyes  that  were  too  grimly  ironical  to  be  angry,  and 
the  next  moment  he  was  sitting  on  the  floor,  two 
muscular  hands  holding  him  down. 

"Not  to-night,"  said  the  leisurely  voice  above 
him.  "To-morrow,  if  you  like,  we  will  begin  the 
cure.  Go  home  now  and  think  it  over. " 

And  with  that  he  was  free.  But  he  sat  for  a 
second  too  infuriated  to  speak  or  move.  Then, 
like  lightning,  he  was  on  his  feet. 

They  stood  face  to  face  for  an  interval  that  was 
too  pregnant  with  fierce  mental  strife  to  be  timed 
by  seconds.  Then,  with  clenched  hands,  in  utter 
silence,  Dinghra  turned  away.  He  went  softly, 
with  a  gliding,  beast-like  motion  to  the  door, 
paused  an  instant,  looked  back  with  the  gleaming 
eyes  of  a  devil — and  was  gone. 

The  Poor  Relation  threw  himself  into  a  chair  and 
laughed  very  softly,  his  lower  lip  gripped  fast 
between  his  teeth. 


3io  The  Swindler 

VI 

THE   KNIGHT   ERRANT* S   STRATEGY 

It  was  summer  in  Weatherbroom — the  glareless, 
perfect  summer  of  the  country,  of  trees  in  their 
first  verdure,  of  seas  of  bracken  all  in  freshest 
green,  of  shining  golden  gorse,  of  babbling,  clear 
brown  streams,  of  birds  that  sang  and  chattered 
all  day  long. 

And  in  the  midst  of  this  paradise  Ernestine 
Cardwell  dwelt  secure.  There  was  literally  not  a 
soul  to  speak  to  besides  the  miller  and  his  wife,  but 
this  absence  of  human  companionship  had  not 
begun  to  pall  upon  her.  She  was  completely  and 
serenely  happy. 

She  spent  the  greater  part  of  her  days  wandering 
about  the  woods  and  commons  with  a  book  tucked 
under  her  arm  which  she  seldom  opened.  Now  and 
then  she  tried  to  sketch,  but  usually  abandoned  the 
attempt  in  a  fit  of  impatience.  How  could  she 
hope  to  reproduce,  even  faintly,  the  loveliness 
around  her?  It  seemed  presumption  almost  to 
try,  and  she  revelled  in  idleness  instead.  The 
singing  of  the  birds  had  somehow  got  into  her 
heart.  She  could  listen  to  that  music  for  hours 
together. 

Or  else  she  would  wander  along  the  mill-stream 
with  the  roar  of  the  racing  water  behind  her,  and 
gather  great  handfuls  of  the  wild  flowers  that 
fringed  its  banks.  These  were  usually  her  even- 
ing strolls,  and  she  loved  none  better. 


The  Knight  Errant  311 

Once,  exploring  around  che  mill,  she  entered  a 
barn,  rnd  found  there  an  old  caravan  that  once 
had  been  gaily  painted  and  now  stood  in  all  the 
shabbmess  of  departed  glory.  She  had  the  curi- 
osity to  investigate  its  interior,  and  found  there  a 
miniature  bedroom  neatly  furnished. 

"That's  Mr.  Rivington's, "  the  miller's  wife  told 
her.  "He  will  often  run  down  to  fish  in  the  sum- 
mer, and  then  he  likes  it  pulled  out  into  the  bit  of 
wood  yonder  by  the  water,  and  spends  the  night 
there.  It's  a  funny  fancy,  I  often  think. " 

"I  should  love  it,"  said  Ernestine. 

She  wrote  to  Rivington  that  night,  her  second 
letter  since  her  arrival,  and  told  him  of  her  dis- 
covery. She  added,  "When  are  you  coming  down 
again?  There  are  plenty  of  trout  in  the  stream. " 
And  she  posted  the  letter  herself  at  the  little 
thatched  post-office,  with  a  small,  strictly  private 
smile.  Oh,  no,  she  wasn't  bored,  of  course!  But 
it  would  be  rather  fun  if  he  came. 

On  the  evening  of  the  following  day,  she  was 
returning  from  her  customary  stroll  along  the 
stream,  when  she  spied  a  water-lily,  yellow  and 
splendid,  floating,  as  is  the  invariable  custom  of 
these  flowers,  just  out  of  reach  from  the  bank. 
She  made  several  attempts  to  secure  it,  each  failure 
only  serving  to  increase  her  determination.  Fin- 
ally, the  evening  being  still  and  warm,  and  her 
desire  for  the  pretty  thing  not  to  be  denied,  she 
slipped  off  shoes  and  stockings  and  slid  cautiously 
into  the  stream.  It  bubbled  deliciously  round 


312  The  Swindler 

her  ankles,  sending  exquisite  cold  thrills  through 
and  through  her.  She  secured  her  prize,  and  gave 
herself  up  unreservedly  to  the  enjoyment  thereof. 

An  unmistakable  whiff  of  tobacco-smoke  awoke 
her  from  her  dream  of  delight.  She  turned 
swiftly,  the  lily  in  one  hand,  her  skirt  clutched  in 
the  other. 

"Don't  be  alarmed,"  said  a  quiet,  casual  voice. 
"It's  only  me." 

"Only  you!"  she  echoed,  blushing  crimson.  "I 
wasn't  expecting  anyone  just  now. " 

"Oh,  but  I  don't  count,"  he  said.  He  was 
standing  on  the  bank  above  her,  looking  down 
upon  her  with  eyes  so  kindly  that  she  found  it 
impossible  to  be  vexed  with  him,  or  even  embar- 
rassed after  that  first  moment. 

She  reached  up  her  hand  to  him. 

"I'm  coming  out." 

He  took  the  small  wrist,  and  helped  her  ashore. 
She  looked  up  at  him  and  laughed. 

"I'm  glad  you've  come,"  she  said  simply. 

"Thank  you,"  he  returned,  equally  simply. 
"How  are  you  getting  on?" 

"Oh,  beautifully!  I'm  as, happy  as  the  day  is 
long." 

She  began  to  rub  her  bare  feet  in  the  grass. 

"  Have  my  handkerchief, "  he  suggested. 

She  accepted  't  with  a  smile,  and  sat  down. 

"Tell  me  about  everything,"  she  said. 

Rivington  sat  down  also,  and  took  a  long, 
luxurious  pull  at  the  briar  pipe. 


The  Knight  Errant  313 

"Things  were  quite  lively  for  a  day  or  two  after 
you  left,"  he  said.  "But  they  have  settled  down 
again.  Still,  I  don't  advise  you  to  go  back  again  at 
present." 

"Oh,  I'm  not  going,"  she  said.  "I  am  much 
happier  here.  I  saw  a  squirrel  this  morning.  I 
wanted  to  kiss  it  dreadfully,  but, "  with  a  sigh,  "it 
didn't  understand." 

"The  squirrel's  loss,"  observed  Rivington. 

She  crumpled  his  handkerchief  into  a  ball,  and 
tossed  it  at  him. 

"Of  course.  But  as  it  will  never  know  what  it 
has  missed,  it  doesn't  so  much  matter.  Are  you 
going  to  live  in  the  caravan?  I'll  bring  you 
your  supper  if  you  are. " 

"That's  awfully  good  of  you, "  he  said. 

"  Oh,  no,  it  isn't.  I  want  to.  I  shall  bring  my 
own  as  well  and  eat  it  on  the  step. " 

"Better  and  better!"  said  Rivington. 

She  laughed  her  own  peculiarly  light-hearted 
laugh. 

"I've  a  good  mind  to  turn  you  out  and  sleep 
there  myself.  I'm  longing  to  know  what  it  feels 
like." 

"You  can  if  you  want  to,"  he  said. 

She  shook  her  head. 

"I  daren't,  by  myself." 

"I'll  have  my  kennel  underneath,"  he  sug- 
gested. 

But  she  shook  her  head  again,  though  she  still 
laughed. 


314  The  Swindler 

"No,  I  mustn't.  What  would  Mrs.  Perkiss 
say?  She  has  a  very  high  opinion  of  me  at 
present. " 

"Who  hasn't?"  said  Rivington. 

She  raised  her  eyes  suddenly  and  gave  him  a 
straight,  serious  look. 

"Are  you  trying  to  be  complimentary,  Knight 
Errant?  Because — don't!" 

Rivington  blew  a  cloud  of  smoke  into  the  air. 

"Shouldn't  dream  of  it, "  he  said  imperturbably. 
"I  am  fully  aware  that  poor  relations  mustn't  pre- 
sume on  their  privileges. " 

She  coloured  a  little,  and  gave  her  whole  atten- 
tion to  fastening  her  shoe-lace. 

"I  didn't  mean  that, "  she  said,  after  a  moment. 
"Only — don't  think  I  care  for  that  sort  of  thing, 
for,  candidly,  I  don't." 

"You  needn't  be  afraid,"  he  answered  gravely. 
"I  shall  never  say  anything  to  you  that  I  don't 
mean." 

She  glanced  up  again  with  her  quick  smile. 

"Is  it  a  bargain?"  she  said. 

He  held  out  his  hand  to  her. 

"All  right,  Chirpy,  a  bargain,"  he  said. 

And  they  sealed  it  with  a  warm  grip  of  mutual 
appreciation. 

"Now  tell  me  what  everybody  has  been  saying 
about  me,"  she  said,  getting  to  her  feet. 

He  smiled  as  he  leisurely  arose. 

"To  begin  with,"  he  said,  "I've  seen  mamma." 

She  looked  up  at  him  sharply. 


The  Knight  Errant  315 

"  Go  on !    Wasn't  she  furious?  " 

"My  dear  child,  that  is  but  a  mild  term.  She 
was  cold  as  the  nether  mill-stone.  I  am  afraid 
there  isn't  much  chance  for  us  if  we  persist  in  our 
folly." 

"Don't  be  absurd!  Tell  me  everything.  Has 
that  announcement  been  contradicted?" 

"Once,"  said  Rivington.  "But  it  has  been 
inserted  three  times  since  then." 

"Oh,  but  you  didn't " 

"Yes,  but  I  did.  It  was  necessary.  I  think 
everyone  is  now  convinced  of  our  engagement, 
including  Lady  Florence." 

Ernestine  laughed  a  little,  in  spite  of  herself. 

"I  can't  think  what  the  end  of  it  will  be,"  she 
said,  with  a  touch  of  uneasiness. 

"Wait  till  we  get  there,"  said  Rivington. 

She  threw  him  a  glance,  half  merry  and  half 
shy. 

"Did  you  tell  mother  where  I  was?" 

" On  the  contrary, "  said  Rivington,  "I  implored 
her  to  tell  me. " 

She  drew  a  sharp  breath. 

"That  was  very  ingenious  of  you." 

"So  I  thought,"  he  rejoined  modestly. 

"And  what  did  she  say?" 

"She  said  with  scarcely  a  pause  that  she  had 
sent  you  out  of  town  to  give  you  time  to  come  to 
your  senses,  and  it  was  quite  futile  for  me  to  ques- 
tion her,  as  she  had  not  the  faintest  intention  of 
revealing  your  whereabouts." 


3i6  The  Swindler 

Ernestine  breathed  again. 

"I  said  in  the  note  I  left  behind  for  her  that  she 
wasn't  to  worry  about  me.  I  had  gone  into  the 
country  to  get  away  from  my  troubles. " 

"That  was  ingenious,  too,"  he  commented. 
"I  think,  if  you  ask  me,  that  we  have  come  out  of 
the  affair  rather  well. " 

"We  have  all  been  remarkably  subtle, "  she  said, 
with  a  sigh.  "  But  I  don't  like  subtlety,  you  know. 
It's  very  horrid,  and  it  frightens  me  rather. " 

"What  are  you  afraid  of?"  he  said. 

"I  don't  know.  I  think  I  am  afraid  of  going  too 
far  and  not  being  able  to  get  back. " 

"Do  you  want  to  get  back?"  he  asked. 

"No,  no,  of  course  not.  At  least,  not  yet, "  she 
assured  him. 

"Then,  my  dear,"  he  said,  "I  think,  if  you  will 
allow  me  to  say  so,  that  you  are  disquieting  your- 
self in  vain." 

He  spoke  very  kindly,  with  a  gentleness  that  was 
infinitely  reassuring. 

With  an  impulsive  movement  of  complete 
confidence,  she  slipped  her  hand  through  his 
arm. 

"Thank  you,  Knight  Errant,"  she  said.  "I 
wanted  that." 

She  did  not  ask  him  anything  about  Dinghra, 
and  he  wondered  a  little  at  her  forbearance. 


The  Knight  Errant 
VII 

HIS  INSPIRATION 


The  days  of  Rivington's  sojourn  slipped  by  with 
exceeding  smoothness.  They  did  a  little  fishing 
and  a  good  deal  of  quiet  lazing,  a  little  exploring, 
and  even  one  or  two  long,  all-day  rambles. 

And  then  one  day,  to  Ernestine's  amazement, 
Rivington  took  her  sketching-block  from  her  and 
began  to  sketch.  He  worked  rapidly  and  quite 
silently  for  about  an  hour,  smoking  furiously  the 
while,  and  finally  laid  before  her  the  completed 
sketch. 

She  stared  at  it  in  astonishment. 

"I  had  no  idea  you  were  a  genius.  Why,  it's 
lovely!" 

He  smiled  a  little. 

"  I  did  it  for  a  living  once,  before  my  father  died 
and  left  me  enough  to  buy  me  bread  and  cheese.  I 
became  a  loafer  then,  and  I've  been  one  ever 


since." 


"But  what  a  pity!"  she  exclaimed. 

His  smile  broadened. 

"It  is,  isn't  it?  But  where's  the  sense  of  work- 
ing when  you've  nothing  to  work  for?  No,  it 
isn't  the  work  of  a  genius.  It's  the  work  of  a  man 
who  might  do  something  good  if  he  had  the  incen- 
tive for  it,  but  not  otherwise." 

"What  a  pity!"  she  said  again.     "Why  don't 
you  take  to  it  again?" 


3i 8  The  Swindler 

"I  might,"  he  said,  "if  I  found  it  worth  while." 

He  tapped  the  ashes  from  his  pipe  and  settled 
himself  at  full  length. 

"Surely  it  is  worth  while!"  she  protested. 
"Why,  you  might  make  quite  a  lot  of  money." 

Rivington  stuck  the  empty  pipe  between  his 
teeth  and  pulled  at  it  absently. 

"I'm  not  particularly  keen  on  money,"  he 
said. 

"But  it's  such  a  waste,"  she  argued.  "Oh,  I 
wish  I  had  your  talent.  I  would  never  let  it  lie 
idle." 

"  It  isn't  my  fault,"  he  said;  "  I  am  waiting  for 
an  inspiration. " 

"What  do  you  mean  by  an  inspiration?" 

He  turned  lazily  upon  his  side  and  looked  at 
her. 

"Let  us  say,  for  instance,  if  some  nice  little 
woman  ever  cared  to  marry  me, "  he  said. 

There  fell  a  sudden  silence.  Ernestine  was 
studying  his  sketch  with  her  head  on  one  side. 
At  length,  "You  will  never  marry,"  she  said,  in 
a  tone  of  conviction. 

"Probably  not,"  agreed  Rivington. 

He  lay  still  for  a  few  seconds,  then  sat  up  slowly 
and  removed  his  pipe  to  peer  over  her  shoulder. 

"It  isn't  bad,"  he  said  critically. 

She  flashed  him  a  sudden  smile. 

"Do  take  it  up  again!"  she  pleaded.  "It's 
really  wicked  of  you  to  go  and  bury  a  talent  like 
that." 


The  Knight  Errant  319 


He  shook  his  head. 

"  I  can't  sketch  just  to  please  myself.  It  isn't 
in  me. " 

"  Do  it  to  please  me,  then, "  she  said  impulsively. 

He  smiled  into  her  eyes. 

"Would  it  please  you,  Chirpy?" 

Her  eyes  met  his  with  absolute  candour. 

"Immensely,"  she  said.  "Immensely!  You 
know  it  would." 

He  held  out  his  hand  for  the  sketch. 

' '  All  right,  then.     You  shall  be  my  inspiration. " 

She  laughed  lightly. 

"Till  that  nice  little  woman  turns  up. " 

"Exactly,"  said  Rivington. 

He  continued  to  hold  out  his  hand,  but  she 
withheld  the  sketch. 

"  I'm  going  to  keep  it,  if  you  don't  mind. " 

"What  for?  "he  said. 

"Because  I  like  it.  I  want  it.  Why  shouldn't 
I?" 

"I  will  do  you  something  better  worth  having 
than  that,"  he  said. 

"Something  I  shouldn't  like  half  so  well,"  she 
returned.  "  No,  I'm  going  to  keep  this,  in  memory 
of  a  perfect  afternoon  and  some  of  the  happiest 
days  of  my  life." 

Rivington  gave  in,  still  smiling. 

"I'm  going  back  to  town  to-morrow,"  he 
said. 

"  Oh,  are  you?  "  Actual  dismay  sounded  in  her 
voice.  "Why?" 


320  The  Swindler 

"I'm  afraid  I  must,"  he  said.  "I'm  sony. 
Shall  you  be  lonely?" 

"Oh,  no,"  she  rejoined  briskly.  "Of  course 
not.  I  wasn't  lonely  before  you  came."  She 
added  rather  wistfully,  "  It  was  good  of  you  to  stay 
so  long;  I  hope  you  haven't  been  very  bored?" 

"Not  a  bit,"  said  Rivington.  "I've  only  been 
afraid  of  boring  you." 

She  laughed  a  little.  A  certain  constraint 
seemed  to  have  fallen  upon  her. 

"How  horribly  polite  we  are  getting!"  she 
said. 

He  laid  his  hand  for  an  instant  on  her  shoulder. 

"I  shall  come  again,  Chirpy, "  he  said. 

She  nodded  carelessly,  not  looking  at  him. 

"Yes,  mind  you  do.  I  dare  say  I  shan't  be 
having  any  other  visitors  at  present." 

But  though  her  manner  was  perfectly  friendly, 
Rivington  was  conscious  of  that  unwonted  con- 
straint during  the  rest  of  his  visit.  He  even 
fancied  on  the  morrow  that  she  bade  him  farewell 
with  relief. 

VIII 

THE   MEETING  IN  THE  MARKET-PLACE 

Two  days  later,  Ernestine  drove  with  the 
miller's  wife  to  market  at  Rington,  five  miles 
distant.  She  had  never  seen  a  country  market, 
and  her  interest  was  keen.  They  started  after  an 


The  Knight  Errant  321 

early  breakfast  on  an  exquisite  summer  morning. 
And  Ernestine  carried  with  her  a  letter  which 
she  had  that  day  received  from  Rivington. 

"Dear  Chirpy,"  it  ran,  "I  hasten  to  write  and 
tell  you  that  now  I  am  back  in  town  again  I  am 
most  hideously  bored.  I  am,  however,  negotiating 
for  a  studio,  which  fact  ought  to  earn  for  me  your 
valued  approval.  If,  for  any  reason,  my  presence 
should  seem  desirable  to  you,  write  or  wire,  and  I 
shall  come  immediately. — Your  devoted 

"KNIGHT  ERRANT." 

Ernestine  squeezed  this  letter  a  good  many 
times  on  the  way  to  Rington.  She  had  certainly 
been  feeling  somewhat  forlorn  since  his  departure. 
But,  this  fact  notwithstanding,  she  had  no  inten- 
tion of  writing  or  wiring  to  him  at  present.  Still,  it 
was  nice  to  know  he  would  come. 

They  reached  the  old  country  town,  and  found 
it  crammed  with  market  folk.  The  whole  place 
hummed  with  people.  Ernestine's  first  view  of 
the  market-place  filled  her  with  amazement.  The 
lowing  of  cattle,  the  bleating  of  sheep,  and  the 
yelling  of  men  combined  to  make  such  a  confusion 
of  sound  that  she  felt  bewildered,  even  awestruck. 

Mrs.  Perkiss  went  straight  to  the  oldest  inn  in 
the  place  and  put  up  the  cart.  She  was  there  to 
buy,  not  to  sell. 

Ernestine  kept  with  her  for  the  first  hour,  then, 
growing  weary  of  the  hubbub,  wandered  away  from 
the  market  to  explore  the  old  town.  She  sat  for  a 
while  in  the  churchyard,  and  there,  to  enliven  her 


322  The  Swindler 

solitude,  re-read  that  letter  of  Rivington's.  Was 
he  really  taking  up  art  again  to  please  her?  He 
had  been  very  energetic.  She  wondered,  smiling, 
how  long  his  energy  would  last. 

Thus  engaged  the  time  passed  quickly,  and  she 
presently  awoke  from  a  deep  reverie  to  find  that 
the  hour  Mrs.  Perkiss  had  appointed  for  lunch  at 
the  inn  was  approaching.  She  rose,  and  began  to 
make  her  way  thither. 

The  street  was  crowded,  and  her  progress  was 
slow.  A  motor  was  threading  its  way  through  the 
throng  at  a  snail's  pace.  The  persistence  of  its 
horn  attracted  her  attention.  As  it  neared  her 
she  glanced  at  its  occupant. 

The  next  moment  she  was  shrinking  back  into  a 
doorway,  white  to  the  lips.  The  man  in  the  car 
was  Dinghra.  , 

Across  the  crowded  pavement  his  eyes  sought 
hers,  and  the  wicked  triumph  in  them  turned  her 
cold.  He  made  no  sign  of  recognition,  and  she 
seemed  as  though  petrified  till  the  motor  had 
slowly  passed. 

Then  a  great  weakness  came  over  her,  and  for 
a  few  seconds  all  consciousness  of  her  surroundings 
went  from  her.  She  remembered  only  those  evil 
eyes  and  the  gloating  satisfaction  with  which  they 
had  rested  upon  her. 

"Ain't  you  well,  miss?"  said  a  voice. 

With  a  start  she  found  a  burly  young  farmer 
beside  her.  He  looked  down  at  her  with  kindly 
concern. 


The  Knight  Errant  323 

"You  take  my  arm, "  he  said.  "Which  way  do 
you  want  to  go?" 

With  an  effort  she  told  him,  and  the  next  mo- 
ment he  was  leading  her  rapidly  through  the 
crowd. 

They  reached  the  inn,  and  he  put  her  into  the 
bar  parlour  and  went  out,  bellowing  for  Mrs. 
Perkiss,  whom  he  knew. 

When  he  finally  emerged,  after  finding  the 
miller's  wife,  a  slim,  dark  man  was  waiting  on  the 
further  side  of  the  road.  The  farmer  took  no 
note  of  him,  but  the  watcher  saw  the  fanner,  and 
with  swift,  cat-like  tread  he  followed  him. 

IX 

IN     FEAR     OF     THE     ENEMY 

All  the  way  home  the  memory  of  those  eyes 
haunted  Ernestine.  All  the  way  home  her  ears 
were  straining  to  catch  the  hoot  of  a  motor-horn 
and  the  rush  of  wheels  behind  them. 

But  no  motor  overtook  them.  Nothing  hap- 
pened to  disturb  the  smiling  peace  of  that  summer 
afternoon. 

Back  in  her  little  room  under  the  thatch  she 
flung  herself  face  downwards  on  the  bed,  and  lay 
tense.  What  should  she  do?  What  should  she 
do?  He  had  seen  her.  He  was  on  her  track. 
Sooner  or  later  he  would  run  her  to  earth.  And 
she — what  could  she  do? 

For  a  long  while  she  lay  there,   too  horror- 


324  The  Swindler 

stricken  to  move,  while  over  and  over  again  there 
passed  through  her  aching  brain  the  memory  of 
those  eyes.  Did  he  guess  that  she  had  come 
there  to  hide  from  him?  Had  he  been  hunting 
her  for  long? 

She  moved  at  length,  sat  up  stiffly,  and  felt 
something  crackle  inside  her  dress.  With  a  little 
start  she  realised  what  it  was,  and  drew  forth 
Rivington's  letter. 

A  great  sigh  broke  from  her  as  she  opened  and 
read  it  once  again. 

A  little  later  she  ran  swiftly  downstairs  with  a 
folded  paper  in  her  hand.  Out  into  the  blinding 
sunshine,  bareheaded,  [>he  ran,  never  pausing  till 
she  turned  into  the  lily-decked  garden  of  the 
post-office. 

She  was  trembling  all  over  as  she  handed  in  her 
message,  but  as  it  ticked  away  a  sensation  of 
immense  relief  stole  over  her.  She  went  out  again 
feeling  almost  calm. 

But  that  night  her  terrors  came  back  upon  her 
in  ghastly  array.  She  could  not  sleep,  and  lay 
listening  to  every  sound.  Finally  she  fell  into 
an  uneasy  doze,  f'.om  which  she  started  to  hear 
the  dog  in  the  yard  barking  furiously.  She  lay 
shivering  for  a  while,  then  crept  to  her  window 
and  looked  out.  The  dense  shadow  of  a  pine 
wood  across  the  road  blotted  out  the  starlight, 
and  all  was  very  dark.  It  was  impossible  to 
discern  anything.  She  stood  listening  intently  in 
the  darkness. 


The  Knight  Errant  325 

The  dog  subsided  into  a  growling  monotone,  and 
through  the  stillness  she  fancied  she  caught  a  faint 
sound,  as  if  some  animal  were  prowling  softly  under 
the  trees.  She  listened  with  a  thumping  heart. 
Nearer  it  seemed  to  come,  and  nearer,  and  then 
she  heard  it  no  more.  A  sudden  gust  stirred  the 
pine  tops,  and  a  sudden,  overmastering  panic 
filled  her  soul. 

With  the  violence  of  frenzy  she  slammed  and 
bolted  her  window,  and  made  a  wild  spring  back  to 
the  bed.  She  burrowed  down  under  the  blankets, 
and  lay  there  huddled,  not  daring  to  stir  for  a  long, 
long  time. 

With  the  first  glimmer  of  day  came  relief,  but 
she  did  not  sleep.  The  night's  terror  had  left 
her  nerves  too  shaken  for  repose.  Yet  as  the  sun 
rose  and  the  farmyard  sounds  began,  as  she  heard 
the  mill-wheel  creak  and  turn  and  the  rush  and 
roar  of  the  water  below,  common  sense  came  to  her 
aid,  and  she  was  able  to  tell  herself  that  her  night 
alarm  might  have  been  due  to  nothing  more 
than  her  own  startled  imagination. 

On  the  breakfast  table  she  found  a  card  awaiting 
her,  which  she  seized,  and  read  with  deepening 
colour. 

"Expect  me  by  the  afternoon  train.  I  shall 
walk  from  the  station. — K.  E." 

A  feeling  of  gladness,  so  intense  that  it  was 
almost  rapture,  made  her  blood  flow  faster.  Ke 
was  coming  in  answer  to  her  desperate  sum- 
mons. He  would  be  with  her  that  very  day. 


326  The  Swindler 

She  was  sure  that  he  would  tell  her  what  to 
do. 

She  read  the  card  several  times  in  the  course  of 
the  morning,  and  came  to  the  conclusion  that  it 
would  be  only  nice  of  her  to  walk  to  meet  him. 
The  path  lay  through  beech  woods.  She  had  gone 
part  of  the  way  with  him  only  t!  :oe  days  before. 
Only  three  days!  It  seemed  like  months.  She 
looked  forward  to  meeting  him  again  as  though  he 
had  been  an  old  friend. 

She  started  soon  after  the  early  dinner.  The 
afternoon  was  hot  and  sultry.  She  was  glad  to 
turn  from  the  road  into  the  shade  and  stillness  of 
the  woods.  The  sun-rays  slanting  downwards 
through  the  mazy,  golden  aisles  made  her  think  of 
the  afternoon  on  which  she  had  waited  for  him 
under  the  dome  of  St.  Paul's. 

The  heat  as  she  proceeded  became  intense.  The 
humming  of  many  insects  filled  the  air  with 
a  persistent  drone.  It  was  summer  at  its 
height. 

A  heavy  languor  began  to  possess  her.  She 
remembered  that  she  had  not  slept  all  the  pre- 
vious night.  She  also  recalled  the  panic  that  had 
kept  her  awake,  and  smiled  faintly  to  herself.  She 
did  not  feel  afraid  now  that  Rivington  was  coming. 
She  even  began  to  think  she  had  been  rather  fool- 
ish, and  wondered  if  he  would  think  so  too. 

She  began  to  go  more,  slowly.  Her  feet  felt 
heavier  at  every  step.  A  few  yards  ahead  a 
golden-brown  stream  ran  babbling  through  the 


The  Knight  Errant  327 

wood.  It  was  close  to  the  path.  She  would  sit 
down  beside  it  and  rest  till  he  arrived. 

She  reached  the  stream,  sank  down  upon  a  bed 
of  moss,  then  found  the  heat  intolerable,  and  began 
impulsively  to  loosen  her  shoes.  What  if  he  did 
discover  her  a  second  time  barefooted?  He  had 
not  minded  before;  neither  had  she.  And  no  one 
else  would  come  that  way.  He  had  even  lent  her 
his  handkerchief  to  dry  her  feet.  Perhaps  he 
woulr*  ^~ain. 

Once  more  a  strictly  private  little  smile  twitched 
the  corners  of  her  mouth.  She  slipped  off  her 
stockings  and  plunged  her  tired  feet  into  the  cool, 
running  water. 

Leaning  back  against  a  tree-trunk  she  closed  her 
eyes.  An  exquisite  sense  of  well-being  stole  over 
her.  He  would  not  be  here  yet.  What  did  it 
matter  if  she  dozed?  The  bubbling  of  the  water 
lulled  her.  She  rested  her  feet  upon  a  sunny 
brown  stone.  She  turned  her  cheek  upon  her  arm. 

And  in  her  sleep  she  heard  the  thudding  of  a 
horse's  hoofs,  and  dreamed  that  her  knight  errant 
was  close  at  hand. 

X 

THE    TIGER'S    PREY 

With  a  start  she  opened  her  eyes.  Some  one 
was  drawing  near.  '  It  must  be  later  than  she 
had  thought. 


328  The  Swindler 

Again  she  heard  the  tramp  of  a  horse's  feet,  and 
hastily  peered  round  the  trunk  of  her  tree.  Surely 
he  had  not  come  on  horseback!  It  must  be  a 
stranger.  She  cast  a  hasty  glance  towards  her 
shoes,  and  gathered  her  feet  under  her. 

A  few  yards  away  she  caught  sight  of  a  horse's 
clean  limbs  moving  in  the  checkered  sunlight.  Its 
rider — her  heart  gave  a  sudden,  sickening  throb 
and  stood  still.  He  was  riding  like  a  king,  with 
his  insolent  dark  face  turned  to  the  sun.  She 
stared  at  him  for  one  wild  moment,  then  shrank 
against  her  tree.  It  was  possible,  it  was  possible 
even  then,  that  he  might  pass  her  by  without  turn- 
ing his  eyes  in  her  direction. 

Nearer  he  came,  and  nearer  yet.  The  path 
wound  immediately  behind  the  beech  tree  that 
sheltered  her.  He  was  close  to  her  now.  He  had 
reached  her.  She  cowered  down  in  breathless 
terror  in  the  moss,  motionless  as  a  stone.  On  went 
the  horse's  feet,  on  without  a  pause,  slow  and 
regular  as  the  beat  of  a  drum.  He  went  by  her  at 
a  walking  pace.  Surely  he  had  not  seen  her! 

She  did  not  dare  to  lift  her  head,  but  it  seemed 
to  her  that  the  sound  of  the  thudding  hoofs  died 
very  quickly  away.  For  seconds  that  seemed 
like  hours  she  crouched  there  in  the  afternoon 
stillness.  Then  at  last — at  last — she  ventured  to 
raise  herself — to  turn  and  look. 

And  in  that  moment  she  knew  the  agony  that 
pierces  every  nerve  with  a  physical  anguish  in  the 
face  of  sudden  horror.  For  there,  close  to  her, 


The  Knight  Errant  329 

was  Dinghra,  on  foot,  not  six  paces  away,  and 
drawing  softly  nearer.  There  was  a  faint  smile 
on  his  face.  His  eyes  were  fixed  and  devilish. 

With  a  gasp  she  sprang  up,  and  the  next  moment 
was  running  wildly  away,  away,  down  the  forest 
path,  heedless  of  the  rough  ground,  of  the  stones 
and  roots  that  tore  her  bare  feet,  running  like  a 
mad  creature,  with  sobbing  breath,  and  limbs 
that  staggered,  compel  them  though  she  might. 

She  did  not  run  far.  Her  flight  ended  as 
suddenly  as  it  had  begun  in  a  violent,  headlong 
fall.  A  long  streamer  of  bramble  had  tripped  her 
unaccustomed  feet.  She  was  conscious  for  an 
instant  of  the  horrible  pain  of  it  as  she  was  flung 
forward  on  her  hands. 

And  then  came  the  touch  that  she  dreaded,  the 
sinewy  hands  lifting  her,  the  sinister  face  looking 
into  hers. 

"You  should  never  run  away  from  destiny," 
said  Dinghra  softly.  "Destiny  can  always  catch 
you  up." 

She  gasped  and  shuddered.  She  was  shaking  all 
over,  too  crushed,  too  shattered,  for  speech. 

He  set  her  on  her  feet. 

"We  will  go  back,"  he  said,  keeping  his  arm 
about  her.  "You  have  had  a  pleasant  sleep?  I 
am  sorry  you  awoke  so  soon. " 

But  she  stood  still,  her  wild  eyes  searching  the 
forest  depths. 

"  Oh,  let  me  go ! "  she  cried  out  suddenly.  "  Oh, 
do  let  me  go!" 


330  The  Swindler 

His  arm  tightened,  but  still  he  smiled. 

"Never  again.  I  have  had  some  trouble  to 
find  you,  but  you  are  mine  now  for  ever — or  at 
least" — and  the  snarl  of  the  beast  was  in  his 
voice —  "for  as  long  as  I  want  you." 

She  resisted  him,  striving  to  escape  that  ever- 
tightening  arm. 

"No!"  she  cried  in  an  agony.     "No!  No!  No!" 

His  hold  became  a  vice-like  grip.  Without  a 
word  he  forced  her  back  with  him  along  the  way 
she  had  come.  She  limped  as  she  went,  and  he 
noted  it  with  a  terrible  smile. 

"It  would  have  been  better  if  you  hadn't  run 
away,"  he  said. 

"Oh,  do  let  me  go!"  she  begged  again  through 
her  white  lips.  "Why  do  you  persecute  me  like 
this?  I  have  never  done  you  any  harm. " 

"Except  laugh  at  me,"  he  answered.  "But 
you  will  never  do  that  again,  at  least. " 

And  then,  finding  her  weight  upon  him,  he 
stopped  and  lifted  her  in  his  arms. 

She  covered  her  face  with  her  hands,  and  he 
laughed  above  her  head. 

"It  is  a  dangerous  amusement,"  he  said,  "to 
laugh  at  Dinghra.  There  are  not  many  who  dare. 
There  is  not  one  who  goes  unpunished." 

He  bore  her  back  to  her  resting-place.  He  set 
her  on  her  feet  and  drew  her  hands  away,  holding 
her  firmly  by  the  wrists. 

"Now  tell  me,"  he  said  "it  is  the  last  time  I 
shall  ever  asl:  you — will  you  marry  me?" 


The  Knight  Errant  331 

"Never!"  she  cried. 

"Be  careful!"  he  broke  in  warningly.  "That 
is  not  your  answer.  Look  at  me !  Look  into  my 
eyes!  Do  you  think  you  are  wise  in  giving  me 
such  an  answer  as  that?" 

But  she  would  not  meet  his  eyes.  She  dared 
not. 

"Listen!"  he  said.  "Your  mother  has  given 
you  to  me.  She  will  never  speak  to  you  again, 
except  as  my  promised  wife.  I  have  sworn  to  her 
that  I  will  make  you  accept  me.  No  power  on 
earth  can  take  you  from  me.  Ernestine,  listen! 
You  are  the  only  woman  who  ever  resisted  me,  and 
for  that  I  am  going  to  make  you  what  I  have  never 
desired  to  make  any  woman  before, — my  wife — 
not  my  servant;  my  queen — not  my  slave.  I  can 
give  you  everything  under  the  sun.  You  will  be  a 
princess.  You  will  have  wealth,  jewels  such  as 
you  have  never  dreamed  of,  palaces,  servants, 
honour — " 

1 '  And  you ! ' '  she  cried  hysterically.     ' '  You ! ' ' 

"Yes,  and  me,"  he  said.  "But  you  will  have 
me  in  one  form  or  another  whatever  your  choice. 
You  won't  get  away  from  me.  You  may  refuse 
to  marry  me,  but " 

"I  do!"  she  burst  out  wildly.     "I  do!" 

"But — "  he  said  again,  very  deliberately. 

And  then,  compelled  by  she  knew  not  what,  she 
lifted  her  eyes  to  his.  And  all  her  life  she  shrank 
and  shuddered  at  the  dread  memory  of  what  she 
saw. 


332  The  Swindler 

For  seconds  he  did  not  utter  a  single  word.  For 
seconds  his  eyes  held  hers,  arresting,  piercing, 
devouring.  She  could  not  escape  them.  She  was 
forced  to  meet  them,  albeit  with  fear  and  loathing 
unutterable. 

"You  see!"  he  said  at  last,  as  though  concluding 
an  argument.  "You  are  mine!  I  can  do  with 
you  exactly  as  I  will — exactly  as  I  will!"  He 
repeated  the  words  almost  in  a  whisper. 

But  at  that  she  cried  out,  and  began  to  struggle, 
like  a  bird  beating  its  wings  against  the  bars  of  a 
cage. 

His  hold  became  cruel  in  an  instant.  He  forced 
her  hands  behind  her,  holding  her  imprisoned  in  his 
arms.  He  tilted  her  head  back.  His  eyes  shone 
down  into  hers  like  the  eyes  of  a  tiger  that  clutches 
its  prey.  He  quelled  her  resistance  by  sheer 
brutality. 

"I  have  warned  you!"  he  said;  and  she  knew 
instinctively  that  he  would  have  no  mercy. 

"How  can  I  marry  you? "  she  gasped  in  despera- 
tion. "I  am  engaged  to — another  man!" 

She  saw  his  face  change.  Instantly  she  knew 
that  she  had  made  a  mistake.  The  ferocity  in  his 
eyes  turned  to  devilish  malice. 

"You  will  marry  me  yet!"  he  said. 

"But  you  will  come  to  hate  me  some  day!"  she 
cried,  clutching  at  straws.  "As — as  I  hate  you 
to-day!" 

His  look  appalled  her,  his  lips  were  close  to 
hers. 


The  Knight  Errant  333 

"  If  I  do, "  he  said,  with  a  fiendish  smile,  "  I  shall 
rind  a  remedy.  But  so  long  as  you  hate  me,  I  shall 
not  grow  tired  of  you!" 

And  with  that  he  suddenly  and  savagely  pressed 
his  lips  to  hers. 

XI 
THE   TIGER'S   PUNISHMENT 

That  single  kiss  was  to  Ernestine  the  climax 
and  zenith  of  horror.  It  seemed  to  sear  and 
blister  her  very  soul  with  an  anguish  of  repulsion 
that  would  scar  her  memory  for  all  time.  She 
retained  her  consciousness,  but  she  never  knew  by 
what  lightning  stroke  she  was  set  free.  She  was 
too  dazed,  too  blinded,  by  her  horror  to  realise. 
But  suddenly  the  cruel  grip  that  had  her  helpless 
was  gone.  A  vague  confusion  swam  before  her 
eyes.  Her  knees  doubled  under  her.  She  sank 
down  in  a  huddled  heap,  and  lay  quivering. 

There  came  to  her  the  sound  of  struggling,  the 
sound  of  cursing,  the  sound  of  blows.  But,  sick 
and  spent,  she  heeded  none  of  these  things,  till  a 
certain  monotony  of  sound  began  to  drum  itself 
into  her  senses.  She  came  to  full  understanding 
to  see  Dinghra,  in  the  grip  of  an  Englishman,  being 
hideously  thrashed  with  his  own  horsewhip.  He 
was  quite  powerless  in  that  grip,  but  he  would 
fight  to  the  end,  and  it  seemed  that  the  end  was 
not  far  off.  The  punishment  must  have  been 


534  The  Swindler 

going  on  for  many  seconds.  For  his  face  was 
quite  livid  and  streaked  with  blood,  his  hands 
groped  blindly,  beating  the  air,  he  staggered  at 
each  blow. 

The  whip  fell  flail-like,  with  absolute  precision 
and  regularity.  It  spared  no  part  of  him.  His 
coat  was  nearly  torn  off.  In  one  place,  on  the 
shoulder,  the  white  shirt  was  exposed,  and  this 
also  was  streaked  with  blood. 

Ernestine  crouched  under  the  tree  and  watched. 
But  very  soon  a  new  fear  sprang  up  within  her,  a 
fear  that  made  her  collect  all  her  strength  for 
action.  It  was  something  in  that  awful,  livid  face 
that  prompted  her. 

She  struggled  stiffly  to  her  feet,  later  she  won- 
dered how,  and  drew  near  to  the  two  men.  The 
whirling  whip  continued  to  descend,  but  she  had 
no  fear  of  that.  She  came  quite  close  till  she 
was  almost  under  the  upraised  arm.  She  laid 
trembling  hands  upon  a  grey  tweed  coat. 

"Let  him  go!"  she  said  very  urgently.  "Let 
him  go — while  he  can!" 

Rivington  looked  down  into  her  white  face.  He 
was  white  himself — white  to  the  lips. 

"I  haven't  done  with  him  yet,"  he  said,  and  he 
spoke  between  his  teeth. 

"  I  know, "  she  said.  "  I  know.  But  he  has  had 
enough.  You  mustn't  kill  him. " 

She  was  strangely  calm,  and  her  calmness  took 
effect.  Later,  she  wondered  at  that  also. 

Rivington  jerked  the  exhausted  man  upright. 


The  Knight  Errant  335 

"Go  back!"  he  said  to  Ernestine.  "Go  back! 
I  won't  kill  him!" 

She  took  him  at  his  word,  and  went  back.  She 
heard  Rivington  speak  briefly  and  sternly,  and 
Dinghra  mumbled  something  in  reply.  She  heard 
the  shuffling  of  feet,  and  knew  that  Rivington  was 
helping  him  to  walk. 

For  a  little  while  she  watched  the  two  figures, 
the  one  supporting  the  other,  as  they  moved  slowly 
away.  Dinghra's  head  was  sunk  upon  his  breast. 
He  slunk  along  like  a  beaten  dog.  Then  the 
trunk  of  a  tree  hid  them  from  her  sight. 

When  that  happened,  Ernestine  suffered  herself 
to  collapse  upon  the  moss,  with  her  head  upon  her 
arms. 

Lying  thus,  she  presently  heard  once  more  the 
tread  of  a  horse's  feet,  and  counted  each  footfall 
mechanically.  They  grew  fainter  and  fainter,  till 
at  last  the  forest  silence  swallowed  them,  and  a 
great  solitude  seemed  to  wrap  her  round. 

Minutes  passed.  She  did  not  stir.  Her  strength 
had  gone  utterly  from  her.  Finally  there  came  the 
sound  of  a  quiet  footfall. 

Close  to  her  it  came,  and  stopped. 

"Why,  Chirpy!"  a  quiet  voice  said. 

She  tried  to  move,  but  could  not.  She  was  as 
one  paralysed.  She  could  not  so  much  as  utter  a 
word. 

He  knelt  down  beside  her  and  raised  her  to  a 
sitting  posture,  so  that  she  leaned  against  him. 
Holding  her  so,  he  gently  rubbed  her  cheek. 


336  The  Swindler 

"Poor little  Chirpy!"  he  said.     "It's  all  right!" 

At  sound  of  the  pity  and  the  tenderness  of  his 
voice,  something  seemed  to  break  within  her,  the 
awful  constriction  passed.  She  hid  her  face 
upon  his  arm,  and  burst  into  a  wild  agony  of 
weeping. 

He  laid  his  hand  upon  her  head,  and  kept  it 
there  for  a  while;  then  as  her  sobbing  grew  more 
and  more  violent,  he  bent  over  her. 

"Don't  cry  so,  child,  for  Heaven's  sake!"  .he 
said  earnestly.  "It's  all  right,  dear;  all  right. 
You  are  perfectly  safe!" 

"I  shall  never — feel  safe — again!"  she  gasped, 
between  her  sobs. 

' '  Yes,  yes,  you  will , "  he  assured  her.  ' '  You  will 
have  me  to  take  care  of  you.  I  shall  not  leave 
you  again." 

"But  the  nights!"  she  cried  wildly.  "The 
nights!" 

"Hush!"  he  said.  "Hush!  There  is  nothing 
to  cry  about.  I  will  take  care  of  you  at  night, 
too." 

She  began  to  grow  a  little  calmer.  The  assur- 
ance of  his  manner  soothed  her.  But  for  a  long 
time  she  crouched  there  shivering,  with  her  face 
hidden,  while  he  knelt  beside  her  and  stroked  her 
hair. 

At  last  he  moved  as  though  to  rise,  but  on  the 
instant  she  clutched  at  him  with  both  hands. 

"Don't  go!  Don't  leave  me!  You  said  you 
wouldn't!" 


The  Knight  Errant  337 

"I  am  not  going  to,  Chirpy,"  he  said.  "Don't 
be  afraid!" 

But  she  was  afraid,  and  continued  to  cling  to 
him  very  tightly,  though  she  would  not  raise  her 
face. 

"Come!"  he  said  gently,  at  length.  "You're 
better.  Wouldn't  you  like  to  bathe  your  feet?" 

"You  will  stay  with  me?"  she  whispered. 

"I  am  going  to  help  you  down  to  the  stream," 
he  said. 

"Don't — don't  carry  me!"  she  faltered. 

"Of  course  not !  You  can  walk  on  this  moss  if  I 
hold  you  up. " 

But  she  was  very  reluctant  to  move. 

"I — I  don't  want  you  to  look  at  me,"  she  said, 
at  last,  with  a  great  sob.  "I  feel  such  a  fright." 

"Don't  be  a  goose,  Chirpy!"  he  said. 

That  braced  her  a  little.  She  dried  her  tears. 
She  even  suffered  him  to  raise  her  to  her  feet,  but 
she  kept  her  head  bent,  avoiding  his  eyes. 

"Look  where  you  are  going,"  said  Rivington 
practically.  "Here  is  my  arm.  You  mustn't 
mind  me,  you  know.  Lean  hard!" 

She  accepted  his  assistance  in  silence.  She  was 
crying  still,  though  she  strove  to  conceal  the  fact. 
But  as  she  sank  down  once  more  on  the  brink  of  the 
stream,  the  sobs  broke  out  afresh,  and  would  not  be 
suppressed. 

"I  was  so  happy!"  she  whispered.  "I  didn't 
want  him  here — to  spoil  my  paradise. " 

Rivington    said    nothing.     She    did    not    even 

32 


338  The  Swindler 

know  if  he  heard ;  and  if  he  were  aware  of  her  tears 
he  gave  no  sign.  He  was  gently  bathing  her  torn 
feet  with  his  hands. 

XII 

THE  KNIGHT  ERRANT  PLAYS  THE  GAME 

She  began  to  command  herself  at  last,  and  to  be 
inexpressibly  ashamed  of  her  weakness.  She  sat  in 
silence,  accepting  his  ministrations,  till  Rivington 
proceeded  to  tear  his  handkerchief  into  strips  for 
bandaging  purposes;  then  she  put  out  a  protesting 
hand. 

"You — you  shouldn't!"  she  said  rather  tremu- 
lously. 

He  looked  at  her  with  his  kindly  smile. 

"  It's  all  right,  Chirpy.     I've  got  another. " 

She  tried  to  laugh.     It  was  a  valiant  effort. 

"  I  know  I'm  a  horrid  nuisance  to  you.  It's  nice 
of  you  to  pretend  you  don't  mind. " 

"  I  never  pretend, "  said  Rivington,  with  a  touch 
of  grimness.  "Do  you  think  you  will  be  able  to 
get  your  stocking  over  that?" 

"I  think  so." 

44  Try!  "he  said. 

She  tried  and  succeeded. 

"That's  better,"  said  Rivington.  "Now  for 
the  shoes.  I  can  put  them  on. " 

"I  don't  like  you  to,"  she  murmured. 

"Knights  errant  always  do  that,"  he  assured 


The  Knight  Errant  339 

her.  "It's  part  of  the  game.  Come!  That's 
splendid!  How  does  it  feel?" 

"I  think  I  can  bear  it,"  she  said,  tinder  her 
breath. 

He  drew  it  instantly  off  again. 

"No,  you  can't.  Or,  at  least,  you  are  not 
going  to.  Look  here,  Chirpy,  my  dear,  I  think  you 
must  let  me  carry  you,  anyhow  to  the  caravan.  It 
isn't  far,  and  I  can  fetch  you  some  slippers  from 
the  mill  from  there.  What?  You  don't  mind,  do 
you?  An  old  friend  like  me,  and  a  poor  relation 
into  the  bargain?"  The  blue  eyes  smiled  at  her 
quizzically,  and  very  persuasively. 

But  her  white  face  crimsoned,  and  she  turned  it 
aside. 

"  I  don't  want  you  to, "  she  said  piteously. 

"No,  but  you'll  put  up  with  it!"  he  urged. 
"It's  too  small  a  thing  to  argue  about,  and  you 
have  too  much  sense  to  refuse. " 

He  rose  with  the  words.  She  looked  up  at  him 
with  quivering  lips. 

"You  wouldn't  do  it  —  if  I  refused?"  she 
faltered. 

The  smile  went  out  of  his  eyes. 

"  I  shall  never  do  anything  against  your  will, "  he 
said.  "But  I  don't  .mow  how  you  will  get  back  if 
I  don't." 

She  pondered  this  for  a  moment,  then,  impul- 
sively as  a  child,  stretched  up  her  arms  to  him. 

"All  right,  Knight  Errant.  You  may,"  she 
said. 


340  The  Swindler 

And  he  bent  and  lifted  her  without  further 
words. 

They  scarcely  spoke  during  that  journey.  Only 
once,  towards  the  end  of  it,  Ernestine  asked  him 
if  he  were  tired,  and  he  scouted  the  idea  with  a 
laugh. 

When  they  reached  the  caravan,  and  he  set  her 
down  upon  the  step,  she  thanked  him  meekly. 

"We  will  have  tea,"  said  Rivington,  and  pro- 
ceeded to  forage  for  the  necessaries  for  this  meal  in 
a  locker  inside  the  caravan. 

He  brought  out  a  spirit-lamp  and  boiled  some 
water.  The  actual  making  of  the  tea  he  relegated 
to  Ernestine. 

"A  woman  does  it  better  than  a  man,"  he  said. 

And  while  she  was  thus  occupied,  he  produced 
cups  and  saucers,  and  a  tin  of  biscuits,  and  laid  the 
cloth.  Finally,  he  seated  himself  on  the  grass 
below  her,  and  began  with  evident  enjoyment  to 
partake  with  her  of  the  meal  thus  provided. 

When  it  was  over,  he  washed  up,  she  drying  the 
cups  and  saucers,  and  striving  with  somewhat 
doubtful  success  to  appear  normal  and  uncon- 
strained. 

"  Do  you  mind  if  I  smoke?"  he  asked,  at  the  end 
of  this. 

"Of  course  not,"  she  answered,  and  he  brought 
out  the  briar  pipe  forthwith. 

She  watched  him  fill  and  light  it,  her  chin  upon 
her  hand.  She  was  still  very  pale,  and  the  fear  had 
not  gone  wholly  from  her  eyes. 


The  Knight  Errant  341 

"Now  I'm  going  to  talk  to  you,"  Rivington 
announced. 

"Yes?"  she  said  rather  faintly. 

He  lay  back  with  his  arms  under  his  head,  and 
stared  up  through  the  beech  boughs  to  the  cloud- 
less evening  sky. 

"I  want  you  first  of  all  to  remember,"  he  said, 
"that  what  I  said  a  little  while  ago  I  meant — and 
shall  mean  for  all  time.  I  will  never  do  anything, 
Chirpy,  against  your  will. " 

He  spoke  deliberately.  He  was  puffing  the 
smoke  upward  in  long  spirals. 

"That  is  quite  understood,  is  it?"  he  asked,  as 
she  did  not  speak. 

"I  think  so,"  said  Ernestine  slowly. 

"  I  want  you  to  be  quite  sure, "  he  said.  "  Other- 
wise, what  I  am  going  to  say  may  startle  you." 

"Don't  frighten  me!"  she  begged,  in  a  whisper. 

"My  dear  child,  I  sha'n't  frighten  you,"  he 
rejoined.  "You  may  frighten  yourself.  That  is 
what  I  am  trying  to  guard  against. " 

Her  laugh  had  a  piteous  quiver  in  it. 

"You  think  me  very  young  and  foolish,  don't 
you?"  she  said. 

He  sat  up  and  looked  at  her. 

"I  think,"  he  said,  "that  you  stand  in  very 
serious  need  of  someone  to  look  after  you. " 

She  made  a  slight,  impatient  movement. 

"Why  go  over  old  ground?  If  you  really  have 
any  definite  suggestion  to  make,  why  not  make 
it?" 


342  The  Swindler 

Rivington  clasped  his  hands  about  his  knees. 
He  continued  to  look  at  her  speculatively,  his  pipe 
between  his  teeth. 

"Look  here,  Chirpy,"  he  said,  after  a  moment, 
"I  can't  help  thinking  that  you  would  be  better  off 
and  a  good  deal  happier  if  you  married. " 

"If  I — married!"  Her  eyes  flashed  startled 
interrogation  at  him.  "If  I — married!"  she 
repeated  almost  fiercely.  "I  would  rather  die!" 

"I  didn't  suggest  that  you  should  marry 
Dinghra,"  he  pointed  out  mildly.  "He  is  not 
the  only  man  in  the  world." 

The  hot  colour  rushed  up  over  her  face. 

"He  is  the  only  one  that  ever  wanted  me,"  she 
said,  in  a  muffled  tone. 

"Quite  sure  of  that?"  said  Rivington. 

She  did  not  answer  him.  She  was  playing 
nervously  with  a  straw  that  she  had  pulled  from 
the  floor  of  the  caravan.  Her  eyes  were  down- 
cast. 

"What  about  me?"  said  Rivington.  "Think 
you  could  put  up  with  me  as  a  husband?  " 

She  shook  her  head  in  silence. 

"Why  not?"  he  said  gently. 

Again  she  shook  her  head. 

He  knelt  up  suddenly  beside  her,  discarding  his 
pipe,  and  laid  his  hand  on  hers. 

"Tell  me  why  not, "  he  said. 

A  little  tremor  went  through  her  at  his  touch. 
She  did  not  raise  her  eyes. 

"It  wouldn't  do,"  she  said,  her  voice  very  low. 


The  Knight  Errant  343 

"You  don't  like  me?"  he  questioned. 

"Yes;  I  like  you.     It  isn't  that. " 

"Then — what  is  it,  Chirpy?  I  believe  you  are 
afraid  of  me, "  he  said  half  quizzically. 

"I'm  not!"  she  declared,  with  vehemence. 
"I'm  not  such  a  donkey!  No,  Knight  Errant, 
I'm  only  afraid  for  you. " 

"I  don't  quite  grasp  your  meaning,"  he 
said. 

With  an  effort  she  explained. 

"You  see,  you  don't  know  me  very  well — not 
nearly  so  well  as  I  know  you. " 

"I  know  you  well  enough  to  be  fond  of  you, 
Chirpy,"  he  said. 

"  That  is  just  because  you  don't  know  me, "  she 
said,  her  voice  quivering  a  little.  "You  wouldn't 
like  me  for  long,  Knight  Errant.  Men  never 
do." 

"More  fools  they,"  said  the  knight  errant, 
with  somewhat  unusual  emphasis.  "It's  their 
loss,  anyway." 

She  laughed  a  little. 

"It's  very  nice  of  you  to  say  so,  but  it  doesn't 
alter  the  fact.  Besides — "  She  paused. 

"Besides — "  said  Rivington. 

She  looked  at  him  suddenly. 

"What  about  that  nice  little  woman  who  may 
turn  up  some  day?" 

The  humorous  corner  of  Rivington's  mouth 
went  up. 

"I  think  she  has,  Chirpy,"  he  said.     "To  tell 


344  The  Swindler 

you  the  honest  truth,  I've  been  thinking  so  for 
some  time. " 

"You  really  want  to  marry  me?"  Ernestine 
looked  him  straight  in  the  eyes.  "It  isn't — only 
— a  chivalrous  impulse?" 

He  met  her  look  quite  steadily. 

"No,"  he  said  quietly;  "it  isn't— only— that. " 

Her  eyes  fell  away  from  his. 

"I  haven't  any  money,  you  know,"  she  said. 

"Never  mind  about  the  money,"  he  answered 
cheerily.  "I  have  a  little,  enough  to  keep  us  from 
starvation.  I  can  make  more.  It  will  do  me  good 
to  work.  It's  settled,  then?  You'll  have 
me?" 

"If — if  you  are  sure — "  she  faltered.  Then 
impulsively,  "Oh,  it's  hateful  to  feel  that  I've 
thrown  myself  at  your  head!" 

His  hand  closed  upon  hers  with  a  restraining 
pressure. 

"You  mustn't  say  those  things  to  me,  Chirpy, " 
he  said  quietly;  "they  hurt  me.  Now  let  me  tell 
you  my  plans.  Do  you  know  what  I  did  when  I 
got  back  to  town  the  other  day?  I  went  and 
bought  a  special  marriage  licence.  You  see,  I 
wanted  to  marry  you  even  then,  and  I  hoped  that 
before  very  long  I  should  persuade  you  to  have  me. 
As  soon  as  I  got  your  telegram,  I  went  off  and 
purchased  a  wedding-ring.  I  hope  it  will  fit. 
But,  anyhow,  it  will  serve  our  present  purpose. 
Will  you  drive  with  me  into  Rington  to-morrow 
and  marry  me  there?" 


The  Knight  Errant  345 

She  was  listening  to  him  in  wide-eyed  amaze- 
ment. 

"So  soon?"  she  said. 

"I  thought  it  would  save  any  further  trouble," 
he  answered.  "  But  it  is  for  you  to  decide. " 

"And — and  what  should  we  do  afterwards?" 
she  asked,  stooping  to  pick  up  her  straw  that  had 
fallen  to  the  ground. 

"That,  again,  would  be  for  you  to  decide,"  he 
answered.  "I  would  take  you  straight  back  to 
your  mother  if  you  wished. " 

She  gave  a  muffled  laugh. 

"Of  course  I  shouldn't  want  you  to  do  that." 

"Or,"  proceeded  Rivington,  "I  would  hire  an 
animal  to  draw  the  caravan,  and  we  would  go  for  a 
holiday  in  the  forest.  Would  it  bore  you? " 

"I  don't  think  so,"  she  said,  without  looking  at 
him.  "I — I  could  sketch,  you  know,  and  you 
could  paint." 

"To  be  sure,"  he  said.  "Shall  we  do  that, 
then?" 

She  began  to  split  the  straw  with  minute  care. 

"You  think  there  is  no  danger  of — Dinghra?" 
she  said,  after  a  moment. 

Rivington  smiled  grimly,  and  got  to  his  feet. 
"Not  the  smallest,"  he  said. 

"He  might  come  back,"  she  persisted.  "What 
if — what  if  he  tried  to  murder  you?" 

Rivington  was  coaxing  his  pipe  back  to  life.  He 
accomplished  his  object  before  he  replied.  Then: 

"You  need  not  have  the  faintest  fear  of  that," 


346  The  Swindler 

he  said.  "Dinghra  has  had  the  advantage  of  a 
public-school  education.  He  has  doubtless  been 
thrashed  before. " 

"He  is  vindictive,"  she  objected. 

"He  may  be,  but  he  is  shrewd  enough  to  know 
when  the  game  is  up.  Frankly,  Chirpy,  I  don't 
think  the  prospect  of  pestering  you,  or  even  of 
punishing  me,  will  induce  him  to  take  the  field 
again  after  we  are  married.  No" — he  smiled 
down  at  her —  "I  think  I  have  cooled  his  ardour 
too  effectually  for  that." 

She  shuddered. 

"I  shall  never  forget  it." 

He  patted  her  shoulder  reassuringly. 

"I  think  you  will,  Chirpy.  Or  at  least  you  will 
place  it  in  the  same  category  as  the  bull  incident. 
You  will  forget  the  fright,  and  remember  only  with 
kindness  the  Knight  Errant  who  had  the  good 
fortune  to  pull  you  through. " 

She  reached  up  and  squeezed  his  hand,  still 
without  looking  at  him. 

"I  shall  always  do  that,"  she  said  softly. 

"Then  that's  settled,"  said  Rivington  in  a  tone 
of  quiet  satisfaction. 

XIII 

THE  KNIGHT  ERRANT  VICTORIOUS 

"On  the  2ist  of  June,  quite  privately,  at  the 
Parish  Church,  Rington,  Hampshire,  by  the 


The  Knight  Errant  347 

Vicar  of  the  Parish,  Cecil  Mordaunt  Rivington 
to  Ernestine,  fourth  daughter  of  Lady  Florence 
Cardwell." 

Cecil  Mordaunt  Rivington,  with  his  pipe 
occupying  one  corner  of  his  mouth,  and  the  other 
cocked  at  a  distinctly  humorous  angle,  sat  on  the 
step  of  the  caravan  on  the  evening  of  the  day 
succeeding  that  of  his  marriage,  and  read  the 
announcement  thereof  in  the  paper  which  he  had 
just  fetched  from  the  post-office. 

There  was  considerable  complacence  in  his 
attitude.  A  cheerful  fire  of  sticks  burned  near, 
over  which  a  tripod  supported  a  black  pot. 

The  sunset  light  filtered  golden  through  the 
forest.  It  was  growing  late. 

Suddenly  he  turned  and  called  over  his  shoulder. 
"I  say,  Chirpy!" 

Ernestine's  voice  answered  from  the  further  end 
of  the  caravan  that  was  shut  off  from  the  rest  by 
curtains. 

"I'm  just  coming.  What  is  it?  Is  the  pot 
all  right?" 

"Splendid.  Be  quick!  I've  something  to  show 
you." 

The  curtains  parted,  and  Ernestine  came 
daintily  forth. 

Rivington  barely  glanced  at  her.  He  was  too 
intent  upon  the  j^.per  in  his  hand.  She  stopped 
behind  him,  and  bent  to  read  the  paragraph  he 
pointed  out. 

After  a  pause,  he   turned   to  view  its   effect, 


348  The  Swindler 

and  on  the  instant  his  eyebrows  went  up  in  amaze- 
ment. 

"Hullo!  "he  said. 

She  was  dressed  like  a  gipsy  in  every  detail,  even 
to  the  scarlet  kerchief  on  her  head.  She  drew 
back  a  little,  colouring  under  his  scrutiny. 

"I  hope  you  approve,"  she  said. 

"By  Jove,  you  look  ripping!"  said  Rivington. 
"How  in  the  world  did  you  do  it?" 

"  I  made  Mrs.  Perkiss  help  me.  We  managed  it 
between  us.  It  was  just  a  fancy  of  mine  to  fill  the 
idle  hours.  I  didn't  think  I  should  ever  have 
the  courage  to  wear  it." 

He  reached  up  his  hand  to  her  as  he  sat. 

"My  dear,  you  make  a  charming  gipsy,"  he 
said.  "You  will  have  to  sit  for  me. " 

She  laughed,  touched  his  hand  with  a  hint  of 
shyness,  and  stepped  down  beside  him. 

"How  is  the  supper  getting  on?  Have  you 
looked  at  it?" 

He  laid  aside  his  paper  to  prepare  for  the  meal. 
To  her  evident  relief  he  made  no  further  comment 
at  the  moment  upon  her  appearance.  But  when 
supper  was  over  and  he  was  smoking  his  evening 
pipe,  his  eyes  dwelt  upon  her  continually  as 
she  flitted  to  and  fro,  having  declined  his  assist- 
ance, and  set  everything  in  order  after  the 
meal. 

The  sun  had  disappeared,  and  a  deep  dusk  was 
falling  upon  the  forest.  Ernestine  moved,  elf -like, 
in  the  light  of  the  sinking  fire.  She  took  no  notice 


The  Knight  Errant  349 

of  the  man  who  watched  her,  being  plainly  too  busy 
to  heed  his  attention. 

But  her  duties  were  over  at  last,  and  she  turned 
from  the  ruddy  firelight  and  moved,  half  reluc- 
tantly it  seemed,  towards  him.  She  reached  him, 
and  stood  before  him. 

"I've  done  now, "  she  said.  "You  can  rake  out 
the  fire.  Good-night!" 

He  took  the  little  hand  in  his. 

"Are  you  tired,  Chirpy?" 

"No,  I  don't  think  so."  She  sounded  slightly 
doubtful. 

"Won't  you  stay  with  me  for  a  little?"  he  said. 
She  stood  silent.  "  I  was  horribly  lonely  after  you 
went  to  bed  last  night, "  he  urged  gently. 

She  uttered  a  funny  little  sigh. 

"I'm  sure  you  must  have  been  horribly  uncom- 
fortable too,"  she  said.  "Did  you  lie  awake?" 

"No,  I  wasn't  uncomfortable.  I've  slept  in  the 
open  heaps  of  times  before.  I  was  just — lonely." 

She  laid  her  hand  lightly  on  his  shoulder  as  she 
stood  beside  him. 

"It  was  rather  awesome,"  she  admitted. 

"I  believe  you  were  lonely  too,"  he  said. 

She  laughed  a  little,  and  said  nothing. 

He  took  his  pipe  from  his  mouth  and  laid  it 
tenderly  upon  the  ground. 

"Shall  I  tell  you  something,  Chirpy?" 

Her  hand  began  to  rub  up  and  down  uneasily  on 
his  shoulder. 

"Well?"  she  said  under  her  breath. 


350  The  Swindler 

He  looked  up  at  her  in  the  falling  darkness. 

"I  feel  exactly  as  you  felt  over  that  squirrel," 
he  said.  "Do  you  remember?  You  wanted  to 
kiss  it,  but  the  little  fool  didn't  understand." 

A  slight  quiver  went  through  Ernestine.  Again 
rather  breathlessly,  she  laughed. 

"Some  little  fools  don't,"  she  said. 

He  moved  and  very  gently  slipped  his  arm  about 
her.  "  I  didn't  mean  to  put  it  quite  like  that, "  he 
said.  "You  will  pardon  my  clumsiness,  won't 
you?" 

She  did  not  resist  his  arm,  but  neither  did  she 
yield  to  it.  Her  hand  still  fidgeted  upon  his 
shoulder. 

"  I  wish  you  wouldn't  be  so  horribly  nice  to  me, " 
she  said  suddenly. 

"My  dear  Chirpy!" 

"Yes,"  she  said  with  vehemence.  "Why  don't 
you  take  what  you  want?  I — I  should  respect 
you  then. " 

"But  I  want  you  to  love  me,"  he  answered 
quietly. 

She  drew  a  quick  breath,  and  became  suddenly 
quite  rigid,  intensely  still. 

His  arm  grew  a  little  closer  about  her. 

"Don't  you  know  I  am  in  love  with  you, 
Chirpy?"  he  asked  her  very  softly.  "Am  I  such 
a  dunderhead  that  I  haven't  made  that  plain?" 

"Are  you?"  she  said,  a  sharp  catch  in  her  voice. 
"Are  you?"  Abruptly  she  stooped  to  him. 
"Knight  Errant,"  she  said,  and  the  words  fell 


The  Knight  Errant  351 

swift  and  passionate,  "would  you  have  really 
wanted  to  marry  me — anyway?" 

His  face  was  upturned  to  hers.  He  could  feel 
her  breathing,  sharp  and  short,  upon  his  lips. 

"My  dear,"  he  said,  "I  have  wanted  to  marry 
you  ever  since  that  afternoon  you  met  me  in  St. 
Paul's." 

He  would  have  risen  with  the  words,  but  she 
made  a  quick  movement  downwards  to  prevent 
him,  and  suddenly  she  was  on  her  knees  before 
him  with  her  arms  about  his  neck. 

"Oh,  I'm  so  glad  you  told  me,"  she  whispered 
tremulously.  "I'm  so  glad." 

He  gathered  her  closely  to  him.  His  lips  were 
against  her  forehead. 

"It  makes  all  the  difference,  dear,  does  it?" 

"Yes,"  she  whispered  back,  clinging  faster. 
"Just  all  the  difference  in  the  world,  because — 
because  it  was  that  afternoon — I  began — to  want 
— you  too. " 

And  there  in  the  darkness,  with  the  dim  forest 
all  about  them,  she  turned  her  lips  to  meet  her 
husband's  first  kiss. 


A  Question  of  Trust 


PIERRE  DUMARESQ  stood  gazing  out  to  the 

I  hard  blue  line  of  the  horizon  with  a  frown 
between  his  brows.  The  glare  upon  the  water 
was  intense,  but  he  stared  into  it  with  fixed,  un- 
flinching eyes,  unconscious  of  discomfort. 

He  held  a  supple  riding-switch  in  his  hands,  at 
which  his  fingers  strained  and  twisted  continually, 
as  though  somewhere  in  the  inner  man  there 
burned  a  fierce  impatience.  But  his  dark  face  was 
as  immovable  as  though  it  had  been  carved  in 
bronze.  A  tropical  sun  had  made  him  even  darker 
than  Nature  had  intended  him  to  be,  a  fact  to 
which  those  fixed  eyes  testified,  for  they  shone  like 
steel  in  the  sunlight,  in  curious  contrast  to  his 
swarthy  skin.  His  hair  was  black,  cropped  close 
about  a  bullet  head,  which  was  set  on  his  broad 
shoulders  with  an  arrogance  that  gave  him  a  pecu- 
liarly aggressive  air.  The  narrow  black  moustache 
he  wore  emphasised  rather  than  concealed  the  thin 
straight  line  of  mouth.  Plainly  a  fighting  man 
this,  and  one,  moreover,  accustomed  to  hold  his 
own. 

352 


A  Question  of  Trust  353 

At  the  striking  of  a  clock  in  the  room  behind 
him  he  turned  as  though  a  voice  had  spoken,  and 
left  the  stone  balcony  on  which  he  had  been 
waiting.  His  spurs  rang  as  he  stepped  into  the 
room  behind  it.  The  floor  was  uncarpeted,  and 
shone  like  ebony. 

He  glanced  around  him  as  one  unfamiliar  with 
his  surroundings.  It  was  a  large  apartment,  and 
lofty,  but  it  contained  very  little  furniture — a 
couch,  two  or  three  chairs,  a  writing-table;  on  the 
walls,  several  strangely  shaped  weapons;  on  the 
mantelpiece  a  couple  of  foils. 

He  smiled  as  his  look  fell  upon  these,  and,  cross- 
ing the  room,  he  took  one  of  them  up,  and  tested  it 
between  his  hands. 

At  the  quiet  opening  of  the  door  he  wheeled,  still 
holding  it.  A  woman  stood  a  moment  upon  the 
threshold;  then  slowly  entered.  She  was  little 
more  than  a  girl  but  the  cold  dignity  of  her  demean- 
our imparted  to  her  the  severity  of  more  advanced 
years.  Her  face  was  like  marble,  white,  pure, 
immobile;  but  there  was  a  touch  of  pathos  about 
the  eyes.  They  were  deeply  shadowed,  and 
looked  as  if  they  had  watched — or  wept — for 
many  hours. 

Dumaresq  bowed  in  the  brief  English  fashion, 
instantly  straightening  himself  with  a  squaring  of 
his  broad  shoulders  that  were  already  so  immensely 
square  that  they  made  his  height  seem  inconsider- 
able. 

She  gravely  inclined  her  head  in  response.     She 
23 


354  The  Swindler 

did  not  invite  him  to  sit  down,  and  he  remained 
where  he  was,  with  his  fierce  eyes  unwaveringly 
upon  her. 

In  the  middle  of  the  room,  full  three  yards 
from  him,  she  paused,  and  deliberately  met  his 
scrutiny. 

"You  wished  to  see  me,  Monsieur  Dumaresq?" 
she  said  in  English. 

"Yes,"  said  Dumaresq.  He  turned,  and  laid 
the  foil  back  upon  the  mantelpiece  behind  him; 
then  calmly  crossed  the  intervening  space,  and 
stood  before  her.  "  I  am  grateful  to  you  for  grant- 
ing me  an  interview,  mademoiselle,"  he  said.  "I 
am  aware  that  you  have  done  so  against  your 
will." 

There  was  something  of  a  challenge  in  the  words, 
but  she  did  not  seem  to  hear  it.  She  made  answer 
in  a  slow,  quiet  voice  that  held  neither  antagonism 
nor  friendliness. 

"I  supposed  that  you  had  some  suggestion  to 
make,  monsieur,  which  it  was  my  duty  to  hear." 

"I  see,"  said  Dumaresq,  still  narrowly  observ- 
ing her.  "Well,  you  are  right.  I  have  a  sug- 
gestion to  make,  one  which  I  beg,  for  your  own 
sake,  that  you  will  cordially  consider. " 

Before  the  almost  brutal  directness  of  his  look 
her  own  eyes  slowly  sank.  A  very  faint  tinge  of 
colour  crept  over  her  pallor,  but  she  made  no  signs 
of  flinching. 

"What  is  your  suggestion,  monsieur?"  she 
quietly  asked  him. 


A  Question  of  Trust  355 

He  did  not  instantly  reply.  Perhaps  he  had 
not  altogether  expected  the  calm  question.  She 
showed  no  impatience,  but  she  would  not  again 
meet  his  eyes.  In  silence  she  waited. 

At  length  abruptly  he  began  to  speak. 

"Have  you,"  he  asked,  "given  any  thought  to 
your  position  here?  Have  you  made  any  plans 
for  yourself  in  the  event  of  a  rising?" 

Her  eyelids  quivered  a  little,  but  she  did  not 
raise  them. 

"I  do  not  think,"  she  said,  her  voice  very 
low,  "that  the  time  has  yet  come  for  making 
plans. " 

Dumaresq  threw  back  his  head  with  a  move- 
ment that  seemed  to  indicate  either  impatience 
or  surprise. 

"You  are  living  on  the  edge  of  a  volcano,"  he 
told  her,  with  grim  force;  "and  at  any  moment 
you  may  be  overwhelmed.  Have  you  never  faced 
that  yet?  Haven't  you  yet  begun  to  realise  that 
Maritas  is  a  hotbed  of  scoundrels — the  very  scum 
and  rabble  of  creation — blackguards  whom  their 
own  countries  have,  for  the  most  part,  refused  to 
tolerate — some  of  them  half-breeds,  all  of  them 
savages?  Haven't  you  yet  begun  to  ask  yourself 
what  you  may  expect  from  these  devils  when  they 
take  the  law  into  their  own  hands?  I  tell  you, 
mademoiselle,  it  may  happen  this  very  night.  It 
may  be  happening  now!" 

She  raised  her  eyes  at  that — dark  eyes  that 
gleamed  momentarily  and  were  as  swiftly  lowered. 


356  The  Swindler 

When  she  spoke,  her  low  voice  held  a  thrill  of 
scorn. 

"Not  now,  monsieur,"  she  said.  "To-night — 
possibly!  But  not  now — not  without  you  to  lead 
them!" 

Pierre  Dumaresq  made  a  slight  movement.  It 
could  not  have  been  called  a  menace,  though  it 
was  in  a  fashion  suggestive  of  violence  suppressed 
— the  violence  of  the  baited  bull  not  fully  roused 
to  the  charge. 

"You  are  not  wise,  Mademoiselle  Stephanie," 
he  said. 

She  answered  him  in  a  voice  that  quivered,  in 
spite  of  her  obvious  effort  to  control  it. 

"Nor  am  I  altogether  a  fool,  monsieur.  Your 
sympathies  are  well  known.  The  revolutionists 
have  looked  to  you  to  lead  them  as  long  as  I  have 
known  Maritas. " 

"That  may  be,  mademoiselle,"  he  sternly  re- 
sponded. "But  it  is  possible,  is  it  not,  that  they 
may  look  in  vain?" 

Again  swiftly  her  glance  flashed  upwards. 

"Is  it  possible?"  she  breathed. 

He  did  not  deign  to  answer. 

"I  have  not  come  to  discuss  my  position,"  he 
said  curtly,  "but  yours.  What  are  you  going 
to  do,  mademoiselle?  How  do  you  propose  to 
escape?" 

She  was  white  now,  white  to  the  lips;  but  she 
-did  not  shrink. 

"  I  beg  that  you  will  not  concern  yourself  on  my 


A  Question  of  Trust  357 

account,"  she  said  proudly.  "I  shall  no  doubt 
find  a  means  of  escape  if  I  need  it. " 

' '  Where,  mademoiselle  ? ' '  There  was  something 
dogged  in  the  man's  voice,  his  eyes  were  relentless 
in  their  determination.  "Are  you  intending  to 
look  to  your  stepfather  for  protection?" 

Again,  involuntarily  almost,  she  raised  her  eyes, 
but  they  held  no  fear. 

"No,  monsieur,"  she  responded  coldly.  "I 
shall  find  a  better  way  than  that. " 

"How,  mademoiselle?" 

The  brief  question  sounded  like  a  threat.  She 
stiffened  as  she  heard  it,  and  stood  silent. 

"How,  mademoiselle?"  he  said  again. 

She  made  a  slight  gesture  of  protest. 

"Monsieur,  it  is  no  one's  concern  but  my  own." 

"And  mine,"  he  said  stubbornly. 

She  shook  her  head. 

"No,  monsieur." 

"And  mine,"  he  repeated  with  emphasis, 
"since  I  presume  to  make  it  so.  You  refuse  to 
answer  me  merely  because  you  know  as  well  as  I 
do  that  you  are  caught  in  a  trap  from  which  you 
are  powerless  to  release  yourself.  And  now  listen 
to  me.  There  is  a  way  out — only  one  way, 
mademoiselle — and  if  you  are  wise  you  will  take  it, 
without  delay.  There  is  only  one  man  in  Maritas 
who  can  save  you.  So  far  as  I  know,  there  is  only 
one  man  willing  to  attempt  it.  That  man  holds 
you  already  in  the  hollow  of  his  hand.  You  will 
be  wise  to  make  terms  with  him  while  you  can." 


358  The  Swindler 

His  tone  was  curiously  calm,  almost  cynical. 
His  eyes  were  still  fixed  unswervingly  upon  her 
face.  They  beat  down  the  haughty  surprise 
with  which  for  a  few  seconds  she  encountered 
them. 

"Yes,  mademoiselle,"  he  resumed  quietly,  as 
though  she  had  spoken.  "  He  is  a  man  whom  you 
despise  from  the  bottom  of  your  soul;  but  for  all 
that,  he  is  not  wholly  despicable.  Nor  is  he 
incapable  of  deserving  your  trust  if  you  will 
bestow  it  upon  him.  It  is  all  a  question  of  trust. " 
He  smiled  grimly  at  the  word.  "Whatever  you 
expect  from  him,  that  you  will  receive  in  full  meas- 
ure. He  does  not  disappoint  his  friends — or  his 
enemies." 

He  paused.  She  was  listening  with  eyes  down- 
cast, but  her  face  was  a  very  mask  of  cold  disdain. 

"Monsieur,"  she  said,  with  stately  deliberation, 
"I  do  not — wholly — understand  you.  But  it 
would  be  wasting  your  time  and  my  own  to  ask  you 
to  explain.  As  I  said  before,  in  the  event  of  a 
crisis  I  can  secure  my  own  safety." 

"Nevertheless,"  said  Pierre  Dumaresq  with  a 
deliberation  even  greater  than  her  own,  "I  will 
explain,  since  a  clear  understanding  seems  to  me 
advisable.  I  am  asking  you  to  marry  me,  Mad- 
emoiselle Stephanie,  in  order  to  ensure  your  safety. 
It  is  practically  your  only  alternative  now,  and  it 
must  be  taken  at  once.  I  shall  know  how  to 
protect  my  wife.  Marry  me,  and  I  will  take  you 
out  of  the  city  to  my  home  on  the  other  side  of 


A  Question  of  Trust  359 

the  island.  My  yacht  is  there  in  readiness,  and 
escape  at  any  time  would  be  easy." 

"Escape,  monsieur!"  Sharply  she  broke  in 
upon  him.  Her  coldness  was  all  gone  in  a  sudden 
flame  of  indignation  kindled  ^y  the  sheer  arro- 
gance of  his  bearing.  "Escape  from  whom — from 
what?" 

He  was  silent  an  instant,  almost  as  if  discon- 
certed. Then: 

"Escape  from  your  enemies,  mademoiselle," 
he  rejoined  sternly.  "Escape  from  the  mercy  of 
the  mob,  which  is  all  you  can  expect  if  you  stay 
here." 

Her  eyes  flashed  over  him  in  a  single,  searing 
glance  of  the  most  utter,  the  most  splendid  con- 
tempt. Then : 

"You  are  more  than  kind,  Monsieur  Du- 
maresq,"  she  said.  "But  your  suggestion  does 
not  recommend  itself  to  me.  In  short,  I  should 
prefer — the  mercy  of  the  mob." 

The  man's  brows  met  ferociously.  His  hands 
clenched.  He  almost  looked  for  the  moment  as 
though  he  would  strike  her.  But  she  did  not 
flinch  before  him,  and  very  slowly  the  tension 
passed.  Yet  his  eyes  shone  terribly  upon  her  as  a 
sword-blade  that  is  flashed  in  the  sunlight. 

"A  strange  preference,  mademoiselle,"  he 
remarked  at  length,  turning  to  pick  up  his  riding- 
switch.  "Possibly  you  may  change  your  mind — 
before  it  is  too  late." 

"Never!"  she  answered  proudly. 


360  The  Swindler 

And  Pierre  Dumaresq  laughed — a  sudden, 
harsh  laugh,  and  turned  to  go.  It  was  only  what 
he  had  expected,  after  all,  but  it  galled  him  none 
the  less.  He  uttered  no  threat  of  any  sort;  only 
at  the  door  he  stood  for  an  instant  and  looked  back 
at  her.  And  the  woman's  heart  contracted  within 
her  as  though  her  blood  had  turned  to  ice. 


II 


When  she  was  alone,  when  his  departing  foot- 
steps had  ceased  to  echo  along  the  corridor  with- 
out, Mademoiselle  Stephanie  drew  a  long,  quivering 
breath  and  moved  to  a  chair  by  the  window.  She 
sank  into  it  with  the  abandonment  of  a  woman 
at  the  end  of  her  strength,  and  sat  passive  with 
closed  eyes. 

For  three  years  now  she  had  lived  in  this  turbu- 
lent island  of  Maritas.  For  three  years  she  had 
watched  discontent  gradually  merge  into  rebellion 
and  anarchy.  And  now  she  knew  that  at  last  the 
end  was  near. 

Her  stepfather,  the  Governor,  held  his  post  un- 
der the  French  Government,  but  France  at  that 
time  was  too  occupied  with  matters  nearer  home  to 
spare  much  attention  for  the  little  island  in  the 
Atlantic  and  its  seething  unrest.  De  Rochefort 
was  considered  a  capable  man,  and  certainly  if 
treachery  and  cruelty  could  have  upheld  his 
authority  he  would  have  maintained  his  ascend- 
ency without  difficulty.  But  the  absinthe  demon 


A  Question  of  Trust  361 

had  gripped  him  with  resistless  strength,  and  all 
his  shrewdness  had  long  since  been  drained 
away. 

Day  by  day  he  plunged  deeper  into  the  vice  that 
was  destroying  him,  and  Stephanie  could  but  stand 
by  and  watch  the  gradual  gathering  of  a  storm  that 
was  bound  to  overwhelm  them  both. 

There  was  no  love  between  them.  They  were 
bound  together  by  circumstance  alone.  She  had 
gone  to  the  place  to  be  with  her  dying  mother, 
and  had  remained  there  at  that  mother's  request. 
Madame  de  Rochefort's  belief  in  her  husband  had 
never  been  shaken,  and,  dying,  she  had  left  her 
English  daughter  in  his  care. 

Stephanie  had  accepted  a  position  that  there  was 
no  one  else  to  fill,  and  then  had  begun  the  long 
martyrdom  that,  she  now  saw,  could  have  only  one 
ending.  She  and  the  Governor  were  doomed. 
Already  the  great  wave  of  revolution  towered 
above  them.  Very  soon  it  would  burst  and  sweep 
both  away  into  the  terrible  vortex  of  destruction. 

It  was  only  of  late  that  she  had  come  to  realise 
this,  and  the  horror  of  the  awakening  still  at  times 
had  power  to  appal  her.  For  she  knew  she  was 
utterly  unprotected.  She  had  tried  in  vain  to 
rouse  the  Governor  to  see  the  ever-growing  danger, 
had  striven  desperately  to  open  his  eyes  to  the 
unmistakable  signs  of  the  coming  change.  He  had 
laughed  at  her  at  first,  and  later,  when  she  had 
implored  him  to  resign  his  post,  he  had  brutally 
refused. 


362  The  Swindler 

She  had  never  approached  him  again  on  the 
matter,  seeing  the  futility  of  argument ;  but  on  that 
selfsame  day  she  had  provided  herself  with  a 
means  of  escape  which  could  not  fail  her  when  the 
last  terrible  moment  arrived.  Flight  she  never 
contemplated.  It  would  have  been  an  utter 
impossibility.  She  was  without  friends,  without 
money.  Her  relations  in  England  were  to  her  as 
beings  in  another  sphere.  She  had  known  them  in 
her  childhood,  but  they  had  since  dropped  out  of 
her  existence.  The  only  offer  of  help  that  had 
reached  her  was  that  which  she  had  just  rejected 
from  the  man  whom,  of  all  others,  she  most  hated 
and  desired  to  avoid. 

She  shivered  suddenly  and  violently  as  she  re- 
called the  interview.  Was  it  possible  that  she 
feared  him  as  well?  She  had  always  disliked 
him,  conscious  of  something  in  his  manner 
that  perpetually  excited  her  antagonism.  She 
had  felt  his  lynx  eyes  watching  her  continu- 
ally throughout  the  bitter  struggle,  and  she 
had  known  always  that  he  was  watching  for 
her  downfall. 

He  was  the  richest  man  in  the  island,  and  as  such 
his  influence  was  considerable.  He  had  not  yet 
made  common  cause  with  the  revolutionary  party, 
but  it  was  generally  felt  that  his  sympathies  were 
on  their  side,  and  it  was  in  him  that  the  majority 
hoped  to  find  a  leader  when  the  time  for  rebellion 
should  be  ripe.  He  had  never  committed  himself 
to  do  so,  but  no  one  on  either  side  doubted  his 


A  Question  of  Trust  363 

intentions,  Mademoiselle  Stephanie,  as  every  one 
called  her,  least  of  all. 

She  had  been  accustomed  to  meeting  him  fairly 
often,  though  he  had  never  been  a  very  frequent 
guest  at  the  palace.  Perhaps  he  divined  her  aver- 
sion, or  perhaps — rnd  this  was  the  more  likely 
supposition — his  hatred  of  the  Governor  debarred 
him  from  enjoying  his  hospitality . 

He  was  a  man  of  fierce  independence  and  pas- 
sionate temperament,  possessing  withal  a  dogged 
tenacity  that  she  always  ascribed  to  the  fact  that 
he  was  born  of  an  English  mother.  But  she  had 
never  before  that  day  credited  him  with  the  desire 
to  exercise  a  personal  influence  in  her  life.  She 
had  avoided  him  by  instinct,  and  till  that  day  he 
had  always  seemed  to  acquiesce. 

His  offer  of  marriage  had  been  utterly  unex- 
pected. Regarding  him  as  she  did,  it  seemed  to 
her  little  short  of  an  insult.  She  hardly  knew  what 
motive  to  ascribe  to  him  for  it ;  but  circumstances 
seemed  to  point  to  one,  ambition.  No  doubt  he 
thought  that  she  might  prove  of  use  to  him  when 
he  stepped  into  the  Governor's  place. 

Well,  he  had  his  answer — a  very  emphatic  one. 
He  could  scarcely  fail  to  take  her  at  her  word.  She 
smiled  faintly  to  herself  even  while  she  shivered, 
as  she  recalled  the  scarcely  suppressed  fury  with 
which  he  had  received  his  dismissal.  She  was 
glad  that  she  had  managed  to  pierce  through  that 
immaculate  armour  of  self-complacence  just  once. 
She  had  not  been  woman  otherwise. 


364  The  Swindler 

III 

An  intense  stillness  brooded  over  the  city.  The 
night  was  starless,  the  sea  black  as  ink.  Stephanie 
stood  alone  in  the  darkness  of  her  balcony,  and 
listened  to  the  silence. 

Seven  days  had  elapsed  since  her  interview  with 
Pierre  Dumaresq — seven  days  of  horrible,  nerve- 
racking  suspense,  of  anguished  foreboding,  of  ever- 
creeping,  leaden-footed  despair.  And  now  at  last, 
though  the  suspense  still  held  her,  she  knew  that 
the  end  had  come.  Only  that  evening,  as  her 
carriage  had  been  turning  in  at  the  palace  gates, 
a  bomb  had  been  flung  under  the  wheels.  By 
some  miracle  it  had  not  exploded.  She  had  passed 
on  unharmed. 

But  the  ghastly  incident  was  to  her  as  the 
sounding  of  her  own  death-knell.  Standing  there 
with  her  face  to  the  sea,  she  was  telling  herself  that 
she  would  never  see  the  daylight  again.  The  very 
soldiers  that  guarded  them  were  revolutionists  at 
heart.  They  were  only  waiting,  so  she  believed, 
for  a  strong  man's  word  of  command  to  throw 
open  the  palace  doors  to  frenzied  murderers. 

No  sound  came  up  to  her  from  the  motionless 
sea,  no  faintest  echo  of  waves  upon  the  shore.  The 
stillness  hung  like  a  weight  upon  the  senses. 
There  was  something  sinister  about  it,  something 
vaguely  terrible.  Yet,  as  she  stood  there  waiting, 
she  was  not  afraid.  Something  deeper  than  fear 
was  in  her  heart.  Pulsing  through  and  through 


A  Question  of  Trust  365 

her  like  an  electric  current  was  a  deep  and  passion- 
ate revolt  against  the  fate  that  awaited  her. 

She  could  not  have  said  whence  it  came,  this 
sudden,  wild  rebellion  that  tore  her  quivering 
heart,  but  it  possessed  her  to  the  exclusion  of  all 
besides.  She  had  told  herself  a  hundred  times 
before  that  death,  when  it  came,  would  be  welcome. 
Yet,  now  that  death  was  so  near  her,  she  longed 
with  all  her  soul  to  live.  She  yearned  unspeakably 
to  flee  away  from  this  evil  place,  to  go  out  into  the 
wide  spaces  of  the  earth  and  to  feel  the  sunshine 
that  as  yet  had  never  touched  her  life. 

They  thought  her  cold  and  proud,  these  people 
who  hated  her;  but  could  they  have  seen  the  tears 
that  rolled  down  her  face  that  night  there  might 
have  been  some  among  them  to  pity  her.  But  she 
was  the  victim  of  circumstance,  bound  and  helpless, 
and,  though  her  woman's  heart  might  agonise, 
there  was  none  to  know. 

A  sudden  sound  in  the  night — a  sharp  sound  like 
the  crack  of  a  whip,  but  louder,  more  menacing, 
more  nerve-piercing.  She  turned,  every  muscle 
tense,  and  listened  with  bated  breath. 

It  had  not  come  from  the  garden  below  her. 
The  silence  hung  there  like  a  pall.  Stay!  What 
was  that?  The  sound  of  a  movement  on  the 
terrace  under  her  balcony — a  muffled,  stealthy 
sound. 

There  was  no  sentry  there,  she  knew.  The  sen- 
tries on  that  side  of  the  palace  were  posted  at  the 
great  iron  gates  that  shut  off  the  garden  from  the 


366  The  Swindler 

road  which  ran  along  the  shore  to  the  fortress 
above. 

A  spasm  of  fear,  sharp  as  physical  pain,  ran 
through  her.  She  stepped  quickly  back  into  the 
room;  but  there  she  stopped,  stopped  deliberately 
to  wrestle  with  the  terror  which  had  swooped  so 
suddenly  upon  her.  She  had  maintained  her  self- 
control  admirably  a  few  hours  before  in  the  face 
of  frightful  danger,  but  now  in  this  awful  silence 
it  threatened  to  desert  her.  Desperate,/,  deter- 
minedly, she  brought  it  back  inch  by  inch,  till  the 
panic  in  her  vanished  and  her  heart  began  to  beat 
more  bravely. 

She  went  at  length  and  opened  the  door  that  led 
into  the  long  corridor  outside  her  apartments. 
The  place  was  deserted.  The  silence  hung  like 
death.  She  stood  a  moment,  gathering  her  cour- 
age, then  passed  out.  She  must  ascertain  if  the 
Governor  were  in  his  room,  and  warn  him — if  he 
would  be  warned. 

She  had  nearly  traversed  the  length  of  the  corri- 
dor when  again  the  silence  was  rent  suddenly  and 
terribly  by  that  sound  that  was  like  the  crack  of  a 
whip.  She  stopped  short,  all  the  blood  racing  back 
to  her  heart.  She  knew  it  now  beyond  a  doubt. 
She  had  known  it  before  in  her  secret  soul.  It  was 
the  report  of  a  rifle  in  the  palace  square. 

As  she  stood  irresolute,  listening  with  straining 
nerves,  another  sound  began  to  grow  out  of  the 
night,  gathering  strength  with  every  instant,  a 
long,  fierce  roar  that  resembled  nothing  that  she 


A  Question  of  Trust  367 

had  ever  heard,  yet  which  she  knew  instinctively 
for  what  it  was — the  raging  tumult  of  an  angry 
crowd.  It  was  like  the  yelling  of  a  thousand 
demons. 

Suddenly  it  swelled  to  an  absolute  pandemonium 
of  sound,  and  she  shrank  appalled.  The  sudden, 
paralysing  conviction  flashed  upon  her  that  the 
palace  had  been  deserted  by  its  guards  and  was  in 
the  hands  of  murderers.  She  seemed  to  hear  them 
swarming  everywhere,  unopposed,  yet  lusting  for 
blood,  while  she,  a  defenceless  woman,  stood  cow- 
ering against  a  door. 

Sheer  physical  horror  seized  upon  her.  The 
mercy  of  the  mob !  The  mercy  of  the  mob !  The 
words  ran  red-hot  in  her  brain.  She  knew  well 
what  she  might  expect  from  them.  They  would 
tear  her  limb  from  limb. 

She  could  not  face  it.  She  must  escape.  Even 
now  surely  she  could  escape.  Back  in  her 
room,  only  the  length  of  the  corridor  away,  was 
deliverance.  Surely  she  could  reach  it  in  time! 
Like  a  hunted  creature  she  gathered  herself  to- 
gether, and,  turning,  fled  along  the  way  she  had 
come. 

She  rushed  at  length,  panting,  into  her  room, 
and,  without  a  pause  or  glance  around,  fled  into 
the  bedroom  beyond.  It  was  here,  it  was  here 
that  her  deliverance  lay,  safe  hidden  in  a  secret 
drawer. 

The  place  was  in  darkness  save  for  the  light  that 
streamed  after  her  through  the  opjn  door.  Shak- 


368  The  Swindler 

ing  in  every  limb,  near  to  fainting,  she  groped  her 
way  across,  found — almost  fell  against — her  little 
writing-table,  and  sank  upon  her  knees  before  it — 
for  the  moment  too  spent  to  move. 

But  a  slight  sound  that  seemed  to  come  from 
near  at  hand  aroused  her.  She  started  up  in  a 
fresh  panic,  pulled  out  a  drawer,  that  fell  with  a 
crash  from  her  trembling  hands,  and  began  to  feel 
behind  for  a  secret  spring.  Oh,  she  had  been  a 
fool,  a  fool  to  hide  it  so  securely !  She  would  never 
find  it  in  the  darkness. 

Nevertheless,  groping,  her  quivering  fingers  soon 
discovered  that  which  they  sought.  The  secret 
slide  opened  and  she  felt  for  what  lay  beyond.  A 
moment  later  she  was  clasping  tightly  a  little 
silver  flask. 

And  then,  with  deliverance  actually  within  her 
hold,  she  paused.  Kneeling  there  in  the  darkness 
she  strove  to  collect  her  thoughts,  that  she  might 
not  die  in  panic.  It  was  not  death  that  she  feared 
just  then.  She  knew  that  it  would  come  to  her 
swiftly,  she  believed  painlessly.  But  she  would 
not  die  before  she  need.  She  would  wait  a  little. 
Perhaps  when  the  wild  tumult  at  her  heart  had 
subsided  she  would  be  able  to  pray,  not  for  deliver- 
ance from  death — there  could  be  no  alternative 
now — but  for  peace. 

So,  kneeling  alone,  she  waited;  and  presently, 
growing  calmer,  removed  the  top  of  the  flask  so 
that  she  might  be  ready. 

Seconds    passed.     Her    nerves    were    growing 


A  Question  of  Trust  369 

steadier;  the  mad  gallop  of  her  heart  was  slacken- 
ing. 

She  leaned  her  head  on  her  hand  and  closed  her 
eyes. 

And  then,  all  in  a  moment,  fear  seized  her 
again — the  sudden  consciousness  of  some  one  near 
her,  some  one  watching.  With  a  gasp  she  started 
to  her  feet,  and  on  the  instant  there  came  the 
click  of  the  electric  switch  by  the  door,  and  the 
room  was  flooded  wit^  light. 

Dazzled,  almost  blinded,  she  stared  across  the 
intervening  space,  and  met  the  steely,  relentless 
eyes  of  Pierre  Dumaresq! 


IV 


She  stood  motionless,  staring,  as  one  dazed.  He, 
without  apology  or  word  of  any  sort,  strode  straight 
forward.  His  face  expressed  stern  determination, 
naught  else. 

But  ere  he  reached  her  she  awoke  to  action, 
stepping  sharply  backwards  so  that  the  table  was 
between  them.  He  came  to  a  stand  perforce  in 
front  of  it,  and  looked  her  full  and  piercingly  in 
the  eyes. 

"Mademoiselle,"  he  said,  and  his  voice  was  so 
curt  that  it  sounded  brutal,  "you  must  come  at 
once.  The  palace  is  in  the  hands  of  murderers. 
The  Governor  has  been  assassinated.  In  a  few 
seconds  more  they  will  be  at  your  door.  Come!" 

She  recoiled  from  him  with  a  face  of  horror. 
34 


370  The  Swindler 

"  With  you,  monsieur?     Never! "  she  cried. 

He  laid  his  hand  upon  the  table  and  leaned  for- 
ward. 

"With  me,  yes,"  he  said,  speaking  rapidly,  yet 
with  lips  that  scarcely  seemed  to  move.  "I 
have  come  for  you,  and  I  mean  to  take  you.  Be 
wise,  Mademoiselle  Stephanie!  Come  quietly!" 

She  scarcely  heard  him.  Frenzy  had  gripped 
her — wild,  unreasoning,  all-mastering  frenzy.  The 
supreme  moment  had  come  for  her,  and,  with  a 
face  that  was  like  a  death-mask,  she  raised  the 
silver  flask  to  her  lips. 

But  no  drop  of  its  contents  ever  touched  them, 
for  in  that  instant  Pierre  vaulted  the  intervening 
table  and  hurled  himself  upon  her.  The  flask 
flew  from  her  hand  and  spun  across  the  room,  fall- 
ing she  knew  not  where;  while  she  herself  was 
caught  in  the  man's  arms  and  held  in  a  grip  like 
iron. 

She  struggled  fiercely  to  free  herself,  but  for 
many  seconds  she  struggled  in  vain.  Then,  just 
as  her  strength  was  beginning  to  leave  her,  he 
abruptly  set  her  free. 

"Come!"  he  said.  "There  is  no  time  for  child- 
ish folly.  Find  a  cloak,  and  we  will  go. " 

His  tone  was  peremptory,  but  it  held  no  anger. 
Turning  from  her,  he  walked  deliberately  away 
into  the  outer  room. 

She  sank  back  trembling  against  the  wall,  nearer 
to  collapse  than  she  had  ever  been  before.  But 
the  momentary  respite  had  its  effect,  and  instinc- 


A  Question  of  Trust  371 

tively  she  began  to  gather  herself  together  for  fresh 
effort.  He  had  wrested  her  deliverance  from  her, 
but  she  would  never  accept  what  he  offered  in 
exchange.  She  would  never  escape  with  his  man. 
She  would  sooner — yes,  a  thousand  times  sooner — 
face  the  mercy  of  the  mob. 

"Mademoiselle  Stephanie!"  Impatiently  his 
voice  came  to  her  from  the  farther  room.  "Are 
you  coming,  or  am  I  to  fetch  you?" 

She  did  not  answer.  A  sudden  wild  idea  had 
formed  in  her  brain.  If  she  could  slip  past  him — 
if  she  could  reach  the  outer  door — he  would  never 
overtake  her  on  the  corridor.  But  she  must  be 
brave,  she  must  be  subtle,  she  must  watch  her 
opportunity. 

With  some  semblance  of  composure  she  took  out 
a  long  travelling-cloak,  and  walked  into  the 
room  in  which  he  awaited  her.  With  a  start  of 
surprise,  she  saw  him  standing  by  the  open 
window. 

"This  way,  mademoiselle,"  he  said  curtly;  and 
she  realised  that  he  must  have  entered  from  the 
garden. 

"One  moment,  monsieur,"  she  returned,  and 
quietly  crossed  the  room  to  the  door  at  the  other 
end. 

It  was  closed.  It  must  have  swung  to  behind 
her,  for  she  did  not  remember  closing  it. 

He  made  no  attempt  to  stop  her.  He  could  not 
surely  have  guessed  her  intention,  for  he  remained 
motionless  by  the  window,  watching  her.  Her 


372  The  Swindler 

heart  was  thumping  as  though  it  would  choke  her, 
but  yet  she  controlled  herself.  He  must  not  sus- 
pect till  the  door  was  open,  till  the  passage  was 
clear  before  her,  and  pursuit  of  no  avail. 

She  reached  out  a  quivering  hand  and  grasped 
the  ebony  knob.  Now — now  for  the  last  and 
greatest  effort  of  her  life !  Sharply  she  turned  the 
handle,  pulled  at  it,  wrenched  it  with  frantic 
force,  finally  turned  from  it  and  confronted  the 
man  at  the  window  with  eyes  that  were  hunted, 
desperate. 

"  Let  me  go ! "  she  gasped  hoarsely.  "  How  dare 
you  keep  me  here  against  my  will?" 

"I  have  no  desire  to  keep  you  here,  mademoi- 
selle," he  answered.  "I  am  only  waiting  to  take 
you  away." 

' '  I  refuse  to  go  with  you ! ' '  she  cried.  ' '  I  would 
rather  die  a  thousand  times!" 

His  brows  contracted  into  a  single  grim  line. 
He  left  the  window  and  came  towards  her. 

But  at  his  action  she  sprang  away  like  a  mad 
thing,  dodged  him,  avoided  him,  then  leapt  sud- 
denly upon  a  chair  and  snatched  a  rapier  from  a 
group  of  swords  arranged  in  a  circle  upon  the  wall. 
The  light  fell  full  upon  her  ashen  face  and  eyes  of 
horror.  She  was  beside  herself. 

All  her  instincts  urged  her  to  resistance.  She 
had  always  shrunk  from  this  man.  If  she  could 
only  hold  him  at  bay  for  a  little — if  she  could  only 
resist  long  enough — surely  she  heard  the  feet  of  the 
murderers  upon  the  corridor  already!  It  would 


A  Question  of  Trust  373 

not  take  them  long  to  batter  down  the  door  and 
take  her  life ! 

As  she  sprang  to  the  ground  again,  Pierre  spoke. 
The  frown  had  gone  from  his  face;  it  wore  a  faint, 
ironical  smile.  His  eyes,  alert,  unblinking,  marked 
her  every  movement  as  the  eyes  of  a  lynx  upon  its 
prey.  He  did  not  appear  in  the  least  disconcerted. 
There  was  even  a  sort  of  terrible  patience  in  his 
attitude,  as  though  he  already  saw  the  end  of  the 
struggle. 

"Would  it  not  be  wiser,  mademoiselle,"  he 
said,  "to  reserve  your  steel  for  an  enemy?" 

She  met  his  piercing  look  for  an  instant  as  she 
compelled  her  white  lips  to  answer.  "You  are 
the  worst  enemy  that  I  have." 

He  threw  back  his  head  with  an  arrogant  ges- 
ture very  characteristic  of  him.  "By  your  own 
choice,  mademoiselle, "  he  said. 

"Yes,"  she  flung  back  passionately.  "I  prefer 
you  as  an  enemy." 

He  laughed  at  that — a  fiendish,  scoffing  laugh 
that  made  her  shrink  in  every  nerve.  Then,  with 
unmoved  composure,  he  walked  to  the  mantel- 
piece and  took  up  one  of  the  foils  that  lay 
there. 

"Now,"  he  said  quietly,  "since  you  are  deter- 
mined to  fight  me,  so  be  it!  But  when  you  are 
beaten,  Mademoiselle  Stephanie,  do  not  ask  for 
mercy!" 

But  she  drew  back  sharply  from  his  advance. 
"Take  one  of  those  rapiers,"  she  said. 


374  The  Swindler 

He  shook  his  head,  still  with  that  mocking  smile 
upon  his  lips.  "This  will  serve  my  purpose 
better,"  he  said.  "Are  you  ready,  mademoiselle? 
On  guard!" 

And  with  that  his  weapon  crossed  hers.  She 
knew  his  purpose  the  moment  she  encountered  it. 
It  was  written  in  every  grim  line  of  his  counte- 
nance. He  meant  the  conflict  to  be  very  short. 

She  was  no  novice  in  the  art  of  fencing,  but  she 
was  no  match  for  him.  Moreover,  she  could  not 
meet  the  pitiless  eyes  that  stared  straight  into  hers. 
They  distracted  her.  They  terrified  her.  Yet 
every  moment  seemed  to  her  to  be  something 
gained.  Through  all  the  wild  chaos  of  her  over- 
strung nerves  she  was  listening,  listening  desper- 
ately, for  the  sound  of  feet  outside  the  door.  If 
she  could  only  withstand  him  for  a  few  short 
seconds!  If  only  her  strength  would  last ! 

But  she  was  nearing  exhaustion,  and  she  knew 
it.  Her  brain  had  begun  to  swim.  She  saw  him 
in  a  blur  before  her  quivering  vision.  The  hand 
that  grasped  the  rapier  was  too  numbed  to  obey 
her  behests.  Suddenly  there  came  a  tumult  in 
the  corridor  without — a  hoarse  yelling  and  the 
rush  of  many  feet.  It  was  the  sound  she  had  been 
listening  for,  but  it  startled,  it  unnerved  her. 
And  in  that  instant  Pierre  thrust  through  her 
guard  and  with  a  lightning  twist  of  the  wrist  sent 
her  weapon  hurtling  through  the  air. 

The  sound  of  its  fall  was  lost  in  the  clamour 
outside  the  door — a  clamour  so  sudden  and  so 


A  Question  of  Trust  375 

horrible  that  it  did  for  Stephanie  that  which 
nothing  else  on  earth  could  have  accomplished. 
It  drove  her  to  the  man  she  hated  for  protection. 

As  he  flung  down  the  foil,  she  made  a  swift 
move  towards  him.  There  was  no  longer  shrink- 
ing in  her  eyes.  She  was  simply  a  trembling, 
panic-stricken  woman,  turning  instinctively  to  the 
stronger  power  for  help.  A  little  earlier  she  could 
have  died  without  a  tremor,  but  the  wild  strife 
of  the  past  few  minutes  had  broken  down  her 
fortitude.  Her  strength  was  gone. 

' '  Monsieur ! ' '  she  panted.     ' '  Monsieur ! ' ' 

He  caught  her  roughly  to  him.  Even  in  that 
moment  of  deadly  peril  there  was  a  certain  fiery 
exultation  about  him.  He  held  her  fast,  his  eyes 
gazing  straight  down  into  hers. 

"Shall  I  save  you?"  he  said.  "I  can  die  with 
you — if  you  prefer  it." 

1 '  Save  me ! ' '  she  cried  piteously .     ' '  Save  me ! ' ' 

He  bent  his  head,  and  suddenly,  fiercely,  sav- 
agely, he  kissed  her  white  lips.  Then,  before  she 
could  utter  cry  or  protest,  he  whirled  her  across  the 
room  to  the  open  window,  catching  up  her  cloak 
as  he  went;  and,  almost  before  the  horror 
of  his  kiss  had  dawned  upon  her,  she  wjis  out 
upon  the  balcony,  alone  with  him  in  the  awful 
dark. 

He  kept  his  hand  upon  her  as  he  stepped  over 
the  stone  railing,  but  all  power  of  independent 
action  seemed  to  have  left  her.  She  was  as  one 
stunned  or  beneath  some  spell.  She  stood  quite 


376  The  Swindler 

rigid  while  he  groped  for  and  found  the  ladder  by 
which  he  had  ascended.  Then,  as  he  lifted  her, 
she  let  herself  go  into  his  arms  without  resistance. 
He  clasped  her  hands  behind  his  neck,  and  she 
clung  there  mechanically  as  he  made  the  swift 
descent. 

They  reached  the  ground  in  safety,  and  he  set 
her  on  her  feet.  The  terrace  on  which  they  found 
themselves  was  deserted.  But  as  they  stood  in 
the  dark  they  heard  the  fiends  in  the  corridor  burst 
into  the  room  they  had  just  left.  And  Pierre 
Dumaresq,  lowering  the  ladder,  laughed  to  himself 
a  low,  fierce  laugh,  without  words. 

The  next  instant  there  came  a  rush  of  feet  upon 
the  balcony  above  them  and  a  torrent  of  angry 
shouting.  Stephanie  shrank  against  a  pillar,  but 
in  a  moment  Pierre's  arm  encircled  her,  impelling 
her  irresistibly,  and  they  fled  across  the  terrace 
through  the  darkness.  The  man  was  still  laughing 
as  he  ran.  There  seemed  to  her  something  devilish 
in  his  laughter. 

Down  through  the  palace  garden  they  sped,  she 
gasping  and  stumbling  in  nightmare  flight,  he 
strongly  upholding  her,  till  half  a  dozen  revolver 
shots  pierced  the  infuriated  uproar  behind  them 
and  something  that  burned  with  a  red-hot  agony 
struck  her  left  hand.  She  cried  out  involuntarily, 
and  Pierre  ceased  his  headlong  rush  for  safety. 

"You  are  hit?"  he  questioned.     "Where?" 

But  she  could  not  answer  him,  could  not  so 
much  as  stand.  His  voice  seemed  to  come  from 


A  Question  of  Trust  377 

an  immense  distance.  She  hardly  heard  his 
words.  She  was  sinking,  sinking  into  a  void 
unfathomable. 

He  did  not  stay  to  question  further.  Abruptly 
he  stooped,  gathered  her  up,  slung  her  across  his 
shoulder,  and  ran  on. 


V 


When  Stephanie  opened  her  eyes  again  the 
sound  of  the  sea  was  in  her  ears,  and  she  felt  as  if 
she  must  have  heard  it  for  some  time.  She  was 
lying  in  a  chair  amid  surroundings  wholly  strange 
to  her,  and  some  one — a  man  whose  face  she  could 
not  see — was  beside  her,  bending  over  a  table,  evi- 
dently engaged  upon  something  that  occupied  his 
most  minute  attention.  She  watched  him  dreamily 
for  a  little,  till  the  immense  breadth  of  his  shoul- 
ders struck  a  quick-growing  fear  into  her  heart; 
then  she  made  a  sudden  effort  to  raise  herself. 

Instantly  she  was  stabbed  by  a  dart  of  pain  so 
acute  that  she  barely  repressed  a  cry. 

"Keep  still,  mademoiselle!"  It  was  Pierre's 
voice ;  he  spoke  without  turning.  ' '  I  shall  not  hurt 
you  more  than  I  can  help." 

She  sank  back  again,  shuddering  uncontroll- 
ably. She  knew  now  what  he  was  doing.  It  had 
flashed  upon  her  in  that  moment  of  horrible  suffer- 
ing. He  was  probing  for  a  bullet  in  her  left  hand. 
Dumbly  she  shut  her  eyes  and  set  herself  to 
endure. 


378  The  Swindler 

But  the  pain  was  almost  insupportable;  it 
seemed  to  rack  her  whole  body.  And  the  pres- 
ence of  the  man  she  feared,  his  nearness  to  her, 
his  touch,  added  tenfold  to  the  torture.  Yet  she 
was  helpless,  and,  spent,  exhausted  though  she  was, 
for  very  pride  she  would  utter  no  complaint. 

Minutes  passed.  She  was  near  to  fainting 
again,  when  abruptly  Pierre  stood  up.  She  heard 
him  move,  and  she  was  conscious  of  a  blessed 
lessening  of  the  pain.  But  she  dared  not  stir  or 
open  her  eyes,  lest  her  self-control  should  forsake 
her  utterly.  She  could  only  lie  and  wait  in 
quivering  suspense. 

He  bent  over  her  without  speaking,  and  sud- 
denly she  felt  the  rim  of  a  glass  against  her  lips. 
With  a  start  she  looked  up.  His  swarthy  face  was 
close  to  her  own,  but  it  was  grimly  immobile.  He 
seemed  to  have  clad  himself  from  head  to  foot  in  an 
impenetrable  armour  of  reserve.  His  lips  were  set 
in  a  firm  line,  as  though  all  speech  were  locked 
securely  behind  them. 

Mutely  she  obeyed  his  unspoken  command  and 
drank.  The  draught  was  unlike  anything  she  had 
ever  tasted  before.  It  revived  her,  renewing  her 
failing  strength. 

"I  thank  you,  monsieur,"  she  said  faintly. 

He  set  down  the  glass,  and  busied  himself  once 
more  with  her  wounded  hand. 

"I  shall  not  hurt  you  any  further,"  he  said,  as 
involuntarily  she  winced. 

And  he  kept  his  word.     The  worst  of  his  task 


A  Question  of  Trust  379 

was  over.  He  only  bathed  and  bandaged  with  a 
gentleness  and  dexterity  at  which  she  marvelled. 

At  last  he  looked  at  her. 

"You  are  better?"  he  asked. 

She  met  his  eyes  for  an  instant.  They  were 
absolutely  steady,  but  they  told  her  nothing  what- 
ever of  his  thoughts. 

"Yes,  I  am  better, "  she  said,  with  an  effort. 

"Can  you  walk?"  he  said. 

"I  think  so,  monsieur." 

"Then  come  with  me,"  he  rejoined,  "and  I  will 
show  you  where  you  can  rest. " 

She  sat  up  slowly.  He  bent  to  help  her,  but  she 
would  not  accept  his  help  till,  rising  to  her  feet,  she 
felt  the  floor  sway  beneath  her.  Then,  with  a 
sharp  exclamation,  she  clutched  for  support  and 
gripped  his  proffered  arm. 

"Monsieur!"  she  gasped. 

He  held  her  up,  for  she  was  tottering.  Her  pale 
face  stared  panic-stricken  up  to  his. 

"Monsieur!"  she  gasped  again.  "What  is  this? 
Where  am  I?" 

He  made  answer  curtly,  in  a  tone  that  sounded 
repressive. 

"You  are  on  board  my  yacht,  mademoiselle." 
She  swayed,  and  he  put  his  arm  round  her.  "You 
are  in  safety, "  he  said,  in  the  same  brief  fashion. 

"As — as  your  prisoner?"  she  whispered,  trying 
weakly  to  free  herself  from  his  hold. 

"As  my  guest,"  he  said. 

By  an  immense  effort  she  controlled  herself, 


380  The  Swindler 

meeting  his  stern  eyes  with  something  like  com- 
posure. But  the  memory  of  that  single,  scorch- 
ing kiss  was  still  with  her.  And  in  spite  of  her 
utmost  resolution,  she  flinched  from  his  direct 
gaze. 

"If  I  am  your  guest,"  she  said,  her  low  voice 
quivering  a  very  little,  "  I  am  at  liberty  to  come — 
and  to  go — as  I  will." 

"Absolutely!"  said  Pierre,  and  she  fancied  for 
an  instant  that  he  smiled . 

"You  will  take  me  wherever  I  desire  to  go?" 
she  persisted,  still  battling  with  her  agitation. 

1 ' With  one  exception , "  he  answered  quietly .  "I 
will  not  take  you  back  to  Maritas." 

She  shivered.     "Then  where,  monsieur?" 

His  expression  changed  slightly.  She  had  a 
momentary  glimpse  of  the  arrogance  she  dreaded. 

"The  world  is  wide,"  he  said.  "And  there  is 
plenty  of  time  before  us.  We  need  not  decide 
to-night." 

She  trembled  more  at  the  tone  than  the  words. 
"  I  did  not  think  you  would  leave  Maritas  so  soon, " 
she  murmured. 

' '  Why  not ,  mademoiselle  ?  "  His  voice  suddenly 
rang  hard ;  it  almost  held  a  threat. 

She  had  withdrawn  herself  from  him,  but  she 
was  hardly  capable  of  standing  alone.  She  leaned 
secretly  against  the  chair  from  which  she  had  just 
risen. 

"Because,"  she  made  answer,  still  desperately 
facing  him,  "  I  thought  that  Maritas  wanted  you. " 


A  Question  of  Trust  381 

He  uttered  a  brief  laugh  that  sounded  savage. 

"That  was  yesterday, "  he  told  her  grimly.  "I 
have  forfeited  my  popularity  since  then." 

A  slow,  painful  flush  rose  in  Stephanie's  drawn 
face,  but  she  shrank  no  longer  from  his  look. 
"And  you  have  gained  nothing  in  exchange,"  she 
said,  her  voice  very  low. 

"Except  what  I  desired  to  gain,"  said  Pierre 
Dumaresq. 

She  made  a  slight,  involuntary  movement,  and 
instantly  her  brows  contracted.  She  closed  her 
eyes  with  a  shudder.  The  pain  was  almost  intoler- 
able. 

A  moment  later  she  felt  his  strong  arms  lift  her 
and  a  sudden  passion  of  misery  swept  over  her. 
Where  was  the  use  of  feigning  strength  when  he 
knew  so  well  her  utter  weakness ;  of  fighting,  when 
she  was  already  so  hopelessly  beaten;  of  begging 
his  mercy  even  when  he  had  warned  her  so  em- 
phatically that  she  must  not  expect  it? 

Despair  entered  into  her.  She  could  resist  him 
no  longer  by  so  much  as  the  lifting  of  a  finger. 
And  as  the  knowledge  swept  overwhelmingly  upon 
her,  the  last  poor  shred  of  her  pride  crumbled  to 
nothing  in  a  rush  of  anguished  tears. 

Pierre  said  no  more.  His  hard  mouth  grew  a 
little  harder,  his  steely  eyes  a  shade  more  steely — 
that  was  all.  He  bore  her  unfaltering  through 
the  saloon  to  the  state  cabin  beyond,  and  laid  her 
down  there. 

In  another  second  she  heard  the  click  of  the 


382  The  Swindler 

latch,  and  his  step  upon  the  threshold.     Softly  the 
door  closed.     Softly  he  went  away. 


VI 


And  Stephanie  slept.  From  her  paroxysm  of 
weeping  she  passed  into  deep,  untroubled  slum- 
ber, and  hour  after  hour  slipped  over  her  un- 
conscious head  while  she  lay  at  rest. 

When  she  awoke  at  last  the  evening  sun  was 
streaming  in  through  the  tiny  porthole  by  the 
head  of  her  couch,  and  she  knew  that  she  must 
have  slept  throughout  the  day.  She  was  very 
drowsy  still,  and  for  a  while  she  lay  motionless, 
listening  to  the  monotonous  beat  of  the  yacht's 
engines,  and  watching  the  white  spray  as  it  tossed 
past. 

Very  gradually  she  began  to  remember  what  had 
happened  to  her.  She  glanced  at  her  wounded 
hand,  swathed  in  bandages  and  resting  upon  a 
cushion.  Who  had  arranged  it  so,  she  wondered? 
How  had  it  been  done  without  her  waking? 

At  the  back  of  her  mind  hovered  the  answers  to 
both  these  questions,  but  she  could  not  bring 
herself  to  face  them — not  yet.  She  was  loth  to 
withdraw  herself  from  the  haze  of  sleep  that  still 
hung  about  her.  She  shrank  intuitively  from  a 
full  awakening. 

And  then,  while  she  still  loitered  on  the  way  to 
consciousness,  there  came  a  soft  movement  near 
her,  and  in  a  moment  all  her  repose  was  shattered. 


A  Question  of  Trust  383 

Pierre,  his  dark  face  grimly  inscrutable,  bent 
over  her  with  a  cup  of  something  steaming  in  his 
hand. 

She  shrank  at  the  sight  of  him.  Her  whole 
body  seemed  to  contract.  Involuntarily  almost 
she  shut  her  eyes.  Her  heart  leapt  and  palpitated 
within  her  like  a  chained  thing  seeking  to  escape. 

Then  suddenly  it  stood  still.     He  was  speaking. 

"Mademoiselle  Stephanie, "  he  said,  "I  beg  you 
will  not  agitate  yourself.  You  have  no  cause  for 
agitation.  It  is  not  by  my  own  wish  that  I  intrude 
upon  you.  I  have  no  choice. " 

It  was  curtly  uttered.  It  sounded  rigidly  un- 
compromising. Yet,  for  some  reason  wholly  in- 
explicable to  herself,  she  was  conscious  of  relief. 
She  opened  her  eyes,  though  she  did  not  dare  to 
raise  them. 

"How  is  that,  monsieur?"  she  said  faintly. 

He  was  silent  for  a  moment ;  then : 

"There  is  no  woman  on  board  besides  yourself, n 
he  told  her  briefly.  "Your  own  people  deserted 
you.  I  had  no  time  to  search  for  others. " 

She  felt  as  if  his  eyes  were  drawing  her  own. 
Against  her  will  she  looked  up  and  met  them. 
They  told  her  nothing,  but  at  least  they  did  not 
frighten  her  afresh. 

"Where  are  you  going  to  take  me?"  she  asked. 

"We  will  speak  of  that  later,"  he  said.  "Will 
you  drink  this  now?  You  need  it." 

"What  is  it,  monsieur?" 

For  an  instant  she  saw  his  faint,  hard  smile. 


384  The  Swindler 

"It  is  broth,  mademoiselle,  nothing  more." 

"Nothing?"  she  said,  still  hesitating.  "You — 
I  think  you  gave  me  a  narcotic  before!" 

" I  did, "  said  Pierre.     "And  it  did  you  good." 

She  did  not  attempt  to  contradict  him.  The 
repression  of  his  manner  held  her  silent.  Without 
further  demur  she  sought  to  raise  herself. 

But  her  head  swam  the  moment  she  lifted  it  from 
the  pillow,  and  she  sank  down  again  with  closed 
eyes  and  drawn  brows. 

"In  a  moment,"  she  whispered. 

"Permit  me,"  said  Pierre  quietly;  and  slipped 
his  arm  under  her  pillow. 

She  looked  up  sharply  to  protest,  but  the  words 
died  on  her  lips.  She  saw  that  he  would  not  be 
denied. 

He  supported  her  with  absolute  steadiness 
while  she  drank,  not  uttering  a  word.  Finally,  he 
lowered  her  again,  and  spoke : 

"It  is  time  that  your  wound  was  attended  to. 
With  your  permission  I  will  proceed  with  it  at 
once. " 

"Is  it  serious,  monsieur?"  she  asked. 

"I  can  tell  you  better  when  I  have  seen  it," 
he  rejoined,  beginning  to  loosen  the  bandage. 
"Does  it  pain  you?"  as  she  winced. 

"A  little,"  she  acknowledged,  with  quivering 
lips. 

He  glanced  at  her,  and  for  the  first  time  in  all 
her  experience  of  him  he  spoke  with  a  hint  of  kind- 
ness. 


A  Question  of  Trust  385 

"It  will  not  take  long,  Mademoiselle  Stephanie. 
Shut  your  eyes  till  it  is  over. " 

She  obeyed  him  mutely.  Her  fear  of  the  man 
was  merging  into  a  curious  feeling  of  reliance.  She 
was  beginning  to  realise  that  her  enforced  depend- 
ence upon  him  had  in  some  fashion  altered  his 
attitude  towards  her. 

"  No, "  he  said  at  last.  "  It  is  not  a  very  serious 
matter,  though  it  may  give  you  some  trouble  till  it 
is  healed.  You  will  need  to  keep  very  quiet,  mad- 
emoiselle, and" — again  momentarily  she  saw  his 
smile — "avoid  agitating  yourself  as  much  as 
possible. " 

"You  may  rely  upon  me  to  do  that,  monsieur, " 
she  returned  with  dignity;  "if  I  am  allowed  to  do 
so." 

Again  for  an  instant  she  felt  his  eyes  upon  her, 
and  she  thought  he  frowned;  but  he  made  no 
comment. 

Quietly  he  finished  his  bandaging  before  he  spoke 
again. 

"If  there  is  any  other  way  in  which  I  can  serve 
you,"  he  said  then,  "you  have  only  to  command 
me." 

She  turned  upon  her  pillow  and  faced  him.  The 
gradual  reviving  of  her  physical  strength  helped 
her  at  least  to  simulate  some  of  her  ancient  pride 
that  he  had  trampled  so  ruthlessly  underfoot. 

"What  do  you  mean  by  that?"  she  questioned 
calmly. 

He  met  her  look  fully  and  sternly. 
35 


386  The  Swindler 

"I  mean,  Mademoiselle  Stephanie,  precisely 
what  I  have  said — no  more,  no  less!" 

In  spite  of  her  utmost  effort,  she  flinched  a  little. 
Yet  she  would  not  be  conquered  by  a  look. 

"I  am  to  treat  you  as  my  servant,  then,  mon- 
sieur?" she  questioned. 

He  dropped  his  eyes  suddenly  from  hers. 

"  If  it  suits  you  to  do  so, "  he  said. 

"The  situation  is  not  of  my  choosing,"  she 
reminded  him. 

"Nor  mine, "  he  answered  drily. 

Her  heart  sank,  but  with  an  effort  she  main- 
tained a  fair  show  of  courage. 

"Monsieur  Dumaresq, "  she  said,  "I  think  that 
you  mean  to  be  kind.  I  shall  act  upon  that 
assumption.  Since  I  am  thrown  upon  your 
hospitality  under  circumstances  which  neither  of 
us  would  have  chosen " 

"I  did  not  say  that,  mademoiselle,"  he  inter- 
posed. "I  have  no  quarrel  with  the  gods  that 
govern  circumstance.  My  only  regret  is  that,  as 
my  guest,  you  should  be  inefficiently  served.  If 
you  find  yourself  able  to  treat  me  as  a  servant  it 
will  be  my  pleasure  to  serve  you. " 

She  did  not  understand  his  tone.  It  seemed  to 
her  that  he  was  trying  in  some  fashion  to  warn  her. 
Again  the  memory  of  his  kiss  swept  over  her;  again 
to  the  very  heart  of  her  she  shrank. 

"  I  think,"  she  said  slowly,  "  that  I  am  more  your 
prisoner  than  your  guest,  Monsieur  Dumaresq." 

"It  is  not  always  quite  wise  to  express  our 


A  Question  of  Trust  387 

thoughts, "  he  rejoined,  with  deliberate  cynicism. 
"  I  have  ventured  to  point  that  out  to  you  before. " 

Again  he  baffled  her.  She  looked  at  him 
doubtfully.  He  was  standing  up  beside  her  on  the 
point  of  departure.  He  returned  her  gaze  with 
his  steely  eyes  almost  as  though  he  challenged  her 
to  penetrate  to  the  citadel  they  guarded. 

With  a  sharp  sigh  she  abandoned  the  contest. 
"  I  wish  I  understood  you, "  she  said. 

He  jerked  his  shoulders  expressively. 

"You  knew  me  a  week  ago  better  than  I  knew 
myself,"  he  remarked.  "What  more  would  you 
have?" 

She  did  not  answer  him.  She  only  moved  her 
head  upon  the  pillow  with  a  gesture  of  weariness. 
She  knew  that  she  would  search  those  pitiless  eyes 
in  vain  for  the  key  to  the  puzzle,  and  she  only 
longed  to  be  left  alone.  He  could  not,  surely, 
refuse  to  grant  her  unspoken  desire. 

Yet  for  a  moment  it  seemed  that  he  would  pro- 
long the  interview.  He  stood  above  her,  motion- 
less, arrogant,  frowning  downwards  as  though  he 
had  something  more  to  say.  Then,  while  she 
waited  tensely,  dreading  the  very  sound  of  his 
voice,  his  attitude  suddenly  underwent  a  change. 
The  thin  lips  tightened  sharply.  He  turned  away. 

VII 

After  he  was  gone,  Stephanie  sat  up  and  gazed 
for  a  long,  long  time  at  the  scud  of  water  leaping 
past  the  porthole. 


388  The  Swindler 

She  felt  stunned  by  the  events  of  the  past 
twenty-four  hours.  She  could  only  review  them 
with  a  numbed  amazement.  The  long  suspense 
had  ended  so  suddenly  and  so  terribly.  She  could 
hardly  begin  to  realise  that  it  was  indeed  over,  that 
the  storm  she  had  foreseen  for  so  long  had  burst 
at  last,  sweeping  away  the  Governor  in  headlong 
overthrow,  and  leaving  her  bruised  and  battered 
indeed,  but  still  alive.  She  had  never  thought 
to  survive  him.  She  had  not  loved  him,  but  her 
lot  had  been  so  inextricably  bound  up  with  his,  that 
she  had  never  seriously  contemplated  the  possi- 
bility of  life  without  him.  What  would  hap- 
pen to  her?  she  asked  herself.  How  would  it 
end? 

There  was  no  denying  the  fact  that,  however 
inexplicable  Pierre's  treatment  might  be,  she  was 
completely  and  irretrievably  his  prisoner. 

There  was  no  one  to  deliver  her  from  him;  no 
one  to  know  or  care  what  became  of  her.  Her 
importance  had  crumbled  to  nothing  so  far  as  the 
world  was  concerned.  She  had  simply  ceased  to 
count.  What  did  he  mean  to  do  with  her?  Why 
had  he  refused  to  discuss  the  future? 

Gradually,  with  a  certain  reluctance,  her 
thoughts  came  down  to  her  recent  interview  with 
him,  and  again  the  feeling  that  he  had  been  trying 
to  convey  something  that  she  had  failed  to  grasp 
possessed  her.  Why  had  he  warned  her  against 
attempting  to  define  her  position?  What  had 
those  last  words  of  his  meant? 


A  Question  of  Trust  389 

One  thing  at  least  was  certain.  Though  he  had 
done  little  to  reassure  her,  she  must  make  a  deter- 
mined effort  to  overcome  her  fear  of  the  man.  She 
must  not  again  shrink  openly  in  his  presence.  She 
must  feign  confidence,  though  she  felt  it  not. 
Something  that  he  had  said  a  week  before  on  the 
occasion  of  his  extraordinary  proposal  of  mar- 
riage recurred  to  her  at  this  point  with  curious 
force. 

"It  is  all  a  question  of  trust,"  he  had  said,  and 
she  recalled  the  faint,  derisive  smile  with  which  he 
had  spoken.  "Whatever  you  expect,  that  you 
will  receive."  The  words  dwelt  in  her  memory 
with  a  strange  persistence.  She  had  a  feeling 
that  they  meant  a  good  deal.  It  was  possible — 
surely  it  was  possible — that  if  she  trusted  him,  he 
might  prove  himself  to  be  trustworthy.  If  only 
her  nerves  were  equal  to  the  task!  If  only  the 
terrible  memory  of  his  kiss  could  be  blotted  for 
ever  and  ever  from  her  mind ! 

She  rose  at  last  and  began  to  move  about  the 
little  state  cabin.  It  was  furnished  luxuriously  in 
every  detail — almost,  she  told  herself  with  a 
shiver,  as  though  for  a  bride.  Catching  sight 
of  her  reflection  in  a  mirror,  she  stared  aghast, 
scarcely  recognising  herself  in  the  wild-eyed,  hag- 
gard woman  who  met  her  gaze.  Small  wonder 
that  she  had  deemed  him  repressive,  she  told  her- 
self, for  she  looked  like  a  demented  creature. 

That  astounding  glimpse  did  more  for  her  than 
any  mental  effort.  Quite  calmly  she  set  to  work 


390  The  Swindler 

to  render  her  appearance  more  normal,  and, 
crippled  though  she  was,  she  succeeded  at  length 
in  attaining  a  fairly  satisfactory  result.  At  least 
she  did  not  think  that  a  masculine  eye  would  detect 
anything  amiss. 

This  achieved,  she  finally  drew  her  travelling 
cloak  about  her  and  went  to  the  door.  It  resisted 
her  effort  to  open,  but  in  a  moment  she  heard  a 
step  on  the  other  side  and  the  withdrawal  of  a  bolt. 

Pierre  opened  the  door  for  her,  and  stood  back 
for  her  to  pass.  But  she  remained  on  the  thresh- 
old. 

"  Monsieur  Dumaresq,  why  did  you  lock  me  in?  " 
she  asked  him,  with  something  of  her  old  stateli- 
ness  of  demeanour,  which  had  made  men  deem  her 
proud. 

His  grey  eyes  comprehended  her  in  a  single 
glance.  He  made  her  his  curt,  British  bow. 

"You  were  overwrought,  Mademoiselle  Ste- 
phanie," he  said.  "I  was  not  sure  of  your  in- 
tentions. But  I  see  that  the  precaution  was 
unnecessary. " 

She  understood  him,  and  a  faint  flush  rose  in 
her  pale  face. 

"Quite,"  she  responded.  "I  have  come  to  my 
senses,  monsieur,  and  I  know  how  to  value  your 
protection.  I  shall  not  seek  that  means  of  escape 
so  long  as  you  are  safeguarding  me." 

She  smiled  with  the  words,  a  brave  and  steadfast 
smile,  and  extended  her  hand  to  him. 

The  gesture  was  queenly,  but  the  instant  his 


A  Question  of  Trust  391 

lingers  closed  upon  it  she  quivered  uncontrollably 
from,  head  to  foot.  A  sudden  mist  descended 
before  her  eyes,  and  she  groped  out  blindly  for 
support.  Her  overtaxed  nerves  had  betrayed  her 
again. 

"Come  and  sit  down,  mademoiselle,"  a  quiet 
voice  said ;  and  a  steady  arm  impelled  her  forward. 
"There  is  something  of  a  swell  to-night.  I  am 
afraid  you  feel  it. " 

So  courteous  was  the  tone  that  she  almost 
gasped  her  astonishment.  She  sank  into  a  chair, 
and  made  a  desperate  effort  to  regain  her  self- 
control. 

"You  are  very  kind,  monsieur,"  she  said,  not 
very  steadily.  "No  doubt  I  shall  become  ac- 
customed to  it." 

"I  do  not  think  you  are  quite  fit  for  this,"  he 
said  gravely. 

She  looked  up  at  him  with  more  confidence. 

"  I  am  really  stronger  than  you  think, "  she  said. 
"And  I  wanted  to  speak  to  you  on  the  subject  of 
our  destination." 

She  fancied  that  he  stiffened  a  little  at  the  words, 
but  he  merely  said : 

"Well,  mademoiselle? " 

"Will  you  not  sit  down,"  she  said,  "and  tell  me 
where  the  yacht  is  going?" 

He  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  the  table.  There 
was  undeniable  restlessness  in  his  attitude. 

"We  are  running  due  west  at  the  present 
moment,"  he  said. 


392  The  Swindler 

"With  what  object?"  she  asked. 

"With  no  object,  mademoiselle,"  he  rejoined, 
4 'except  to  keep  out  of  reach  of  our  enemies." 

"You  have  left  Maritas  for  good?"  she  asked. 

He  uttered  a  short  laugh. 

"Certainly.     I  have  nothing  to  go  back  for." 

"And  you  are  indifferent,"  she  questioned,  with 
slight  hesitation,  "as  to  the  direction  you  take?" 

"No,  I  am  not  indifferent,"  he  answered  curtly. 

She  was  silent.  His  manner  puzzled  her,  made 
her  afraid  in  spite  of  herself. 

There  followed  a  short  pause,  then  he  turned 
slightly  and  looked  at  her. 

"Have  you  any  particular  wishes  upon  the  sub- 
ject?" he  asked. 

"Yes,  monsieur." 

Her  reply  was  very  low. 

"Let  me  hear  them,"  said  Pierre. 

"I  should  like,"  she  said  slowly,  "if  it  be 
possible,  to  go  to  England.  I  have  relations  there 
who  might  help  me. " 

"Help  you,  mademoiselle?" 

His  tone  sounded  harsh. 

"To  earn  my  living, "  she  answered  simply. 

His  brows  met  suddenly. 

"  It  is  a  far  cry  to  England, "  he  observed. 

"I  know  it,"  she  said.  "I  am  counting  upon 
your  kindness." 

"  I  see, "  said  Pierre.  "  I  am  to  take  you  there, 
and — leave  you.  Is  that  it?" 

She  bent  her  head. 


A  Question  of  Trust  393 

"If  you  will,  monsieur." 

"And  if  I  will  not?"  he  said. 

She  was  silent. 

He  stood  up  abruptly,  and  walked  to  the  farther 
end  of  the  saloon.  When  he  came  back  his  face 
was  set  and  grim.  He  halted  in  front  of  her.  ij 

"I  am  to  do  this  thing  for  nothing?"  he  said. 
And  it  seemed  to  her  that,  though  uttered  quietly, 
his  words  came  through  clenched  teeth. 

Again  wild  panic  was  at  her  heart,  but  with  all 
her  strength  she  held  it  back. 

"You  offered  to  serve  me,  monsieur,"  she  re- 
minded him. 

"  Even  a  servant  expects  to  be  paid, "  he  rejoined 
curtly. 

"But  I  have  nothing  to  offer  you, "  she  said. 

She  saw  the  grey  eyes  glitter  as  steel  in  sudden 
sunshine.  Their  brightness  was  intolerable.  She 
turned  her  own  away. 

"Does  it  not  occur  to  you,  Mademoiselle 
Stephanie,"  he  said,  "that  your  life  is  more  my 
property  than  your  own  at  the  present  moment? 
Have  I  no  claim  to  be  consulted  as  to  its  disposal?  " 

"None,  monsieur,"  she  made  answer  quickly. 
"  None  whatever. " 

"And  yet, "  he  said,  "you  asked  me  to  save  you 
when — had  you  preferred  it — I  would  have  died 
with  you. " 

She  was  silent,  remembering  with  bitterness  her 
wild  cry  for  deliverance. 

He  waited  a  little.     Then : 


394  The  Swindler 

"You  may  have  nothing  to  offer  me,  Mademoi- 
selle Stephanie,"  he  said,  "but,  by  heaven,  you 
shall  take  nothing  away." 

She  heard  a  deep  menace  in  his  voice  that  was 
like  the  growl  of  an  angry  beast.  She  shuddered 
inwardly  as  she  listened,  but  outwardly  she 
remained  calm.  She  even,  after  a  few  moments, 
mustered  strength  to  rise  and  face  him. 

"What  is  it  that  you  want  of  me,  Monsieur 
Dumaresq?"  she  asked.  "How  can  I  purchase 
your  services?" 

He  flung  back  his  head  abruptly.  She  thought 
that  he  was  goir  j  to  utter  his  scoffing  laugh.  But 
it  did  not  come.  Instead,  he  looked  at  her,  looked 
at  her  long  and  piercingly,  while  she  stood  erect 
and  waited. 

At  last:  "The  price  for  my  services,"  he  said 
deliberately,  "is  that  you  marry  me  as  soon  as  we 
reach  England." 

"Marry  you!"  In  spite  of  her  utmost  resolu- 
tion she  started,  and  slightly  shrank.  "You  still 
desire  that?" 

"I  still  desire  it,"  he  said. 

"And  if  I  refuse?"  she  questioned,  her  voice 
very  low. 

"You  will  not  refuse,"  he  returned,  with  con- 
viction. "You  dare  not  refuse. " 

She  stood  silent. 

"And  that  being  so, "  said  Pierre,  with  a  certain 
doggedness  peculiarly  at  variance  with  his  fierce 
and  headlong  nature,  "that  being  so,  Mademoiselle 


A  Question  of  Trust  395 

Stephanie,  would  it  not  be  wiser  for  you  to  yield  at 
once?" 

"To  yield,  monsieur?" 

Her  eyes  sought  his  for  the  fraction  of  a  second. 
He  was  still  closely  watching  her. 

"To  give  me  your  promise, "  he  said.  "It  is  all 
I  shall  ask  of  you.  I  shall  be  satisfied  with  that. " 

"And  what  have  you  to  offer  in  exchange?"  she 
said. 

A  strange  expression,  that  was  almost  a  smile, 
flitted  over  his  hard  face. 

"I  will  give  you  my  friendship,"  he  said,  "no 
more,  no  less." 

But  still  she  hesitated,  till  suddenly,  with  a 
gesture  wholly  arrogant,  he  held  out  his  hand. 

"Trust  me,"  he  said,  "and  I  will  be  trust- 
worthy. 

She  knew  it  for  a  definite  promise,  however 
insolently  expressed.  It  was  plain  that  he  meant 
what  he  said.  It  was  plain  that  he  desired  to  win 
her  confidence.  And  in  a  measure  she  was  re- 
assured. His  actions  testified  to  a  patience  of 
which  she  had  not  deemed  him  capable. 

Slowly,  in  unconscious  submission  to  his  will,  she 
laid  her  hand  in  his. 

"And  afterwards,  monsieur?"  she  said.  "Shall 
I  be  able  to  trust  you  then?" 

He  leaned  slightly  towards  her,  looking  more 
closely  into  her  face. 

Then:  "All  my  life,  Stephanie,"  he  said,  and 
before  she  realised  his  intention  he  had  pressed  her 


396  The  Swindler 

hand  to  his  lips  with  the  action  of  a  man  who  seals 
an  oath. 

VIII 

From  that  hour  forward,  Stephanie  was  no 
longer  a  close  prisoner.  She  was  free  to 
wander  wherever  she  would  about  the  yacht,  but 
she  never  penetrated  very  far.  The  vessel  was  no 
mere  pleasure  boat,  and  there  was  much  that  might 
have  interested  her,  had  she  been  disposed  to  take 
an  interest  therein.  But  she  shrank  with  a  mor- 
bid dread  from  the  eyes  of  the  Spanish  sailors. 
She  longed  unspeakably  to  hide  herself  away  in 
unbroken  seclusion. 

Her  wound  healed  rapidly,  so  rapidly  that 
Pierre  soon  ceased  to  treat  it,  but  it  took  much 
longer  for  her  to  recover  from  the  effects  of  that 
terrible  night  at  Maritas.  The  horror  of  it  was 
with  her  night  and  day. 

Pierre's  treatment  of  her  never  varied.  He 
saw  to  her  comfort  with  unfailing  vigilance  and 
consideration,  but  he  never  attempted  to  obtrude 
himself  upon  her.  He  seldom  spoke  to  her  unless 
she  addressed  him.  He  never  by  word  or  look 
referred  to  the  compact  between  them.  Her  fear 
of  him  had  sunk  away  into  the  background  of  her 
thoughts.  Furtively  she  studied  him,  but  he  gave 
her  no  cause  for  fear.  When  she  sat  on  the  deck, 
he  never  joined  her.  He  did  not  so  much  as  eat 
with  her  till  one  day,  not  without  much  inward 


A  Question  of  Trust  397 

trepidation,  she  invited  him  to  do  so.  And  she 
marvelled,  again  and  again  she  marvelled,  at  his 
forbearance. 

Calmly  and  uneventfully  the  endless  summer 
days  slipped  by.  Her  strength  was  undoubtedly 
returning  to  her,  the  youth  in  her  reviving.  The 
long  rest  was  taking  effect  upon  her.  The  over- 
strung nerves  were  growing  steady  again.  Often 
she  would  sit  and  ponder  upon  the  future,  but  she 
had  no  definite  idea  to  guide  her.  At  first  she 
shrank  unspeakably  from  the  bare  thought  of  the 
end  of  the  voyage,  but  gradually  she  became 
accustomed  to  it.  It  seemed  too  remote  to  be 
terrible,  and  her  reliance  upon  Pierre's  good  faith 
increased  daily.  Somehow,  unaccountably,  she 
had  wholly  ceased  to  regard  him  as  an  enemy. 
Possibly  her  fears  and  even  her  antagonism  were 
only  dormant,  but  at  least  they  did  not  torment 
her.  She  did  not  start  at  the  sound  of  his  voice,  or 
shrink  from  the  straight  regard  of  those  hard  eyes. 
She  knew  by  that  instinct  that  cannot  err  that  he 
meant  to  keep  his  word. 

They  left  the  regions  of  endless  summer  behind 
at  last,  and  the  cooler  breezes  of  the  north  swept  the 
long,  blue  ridges  over  which  they  travelled.  They 
came  into  a  more  frequented,  less  dreamlike  sea, 
but  though  many  vessels  passed  them,  they  were 
seldom  near  enough  for  greeting.  And  Stephanie 
came  to  understand  that  it  was  not  Pierre's  desire 
to  hold  much  converse  with  the  outer  world.  Yet 
she  knew  that  they  were  heading  straight  for 


398  The  Swindler 

England,  and  their  isolation  was  bound  ere  long  to 
come  to  an  end. 

It  was  summer  weather  even  in  England  just 
then,  summer  weather  in  the  blue  Atlantic,  sum- 
mer everywhere.  She  spent  many  hours  of  each 
day  in  a  sheltered  corner  of  the  deck,  watching  the 
leaping  waves,  green  and  splendid,  racing  from  the 
keel.  And  a  strange  content  was  hers  while  she 
watched,  born  of  the  unwonted  peace  which  of  late 
had  wrapped  her  round.  She  was  as  one  come 
into  safe  harbourage  after  long  and  futile  tossing 
upon  the  waters  of  strife.  She  did  not  question 
her  security.  She  only  knew  that  it  was  there. 

But  one  day  there  came  a  change — a  grey  sky 
and  white-capped  waves.  Suddenly  and  inexplic- 
ably, as  is  the  way  of  the  northern  climate,  the 
sunshine  was  withdrawn,  the  summer  weather 
departed,  and  there  came  desolation. 

Stephanie's  corner  on  deck  was  empty.  She 
crouched  below,  ill,  shivering  with  cold  and 
wretchedness.  All  day  long  she  listened  to  the 
howling  wind  and  pitiless,  lashing  rain,  rising  above 
the  sullen  roar  of  the  waves.  All  day  long  the 
vessel  pitched  and  tossed,  flinging  her  back  and 
forth  while  she  clung  in  desperation  to  the  edge  of 
her  berth. 

Pierre  waited  upon  her  from  time  to  time,  but  he 
could  do  little  to  relieve  her  discomfort,  and  he  left 
her  for  the  most  part  alone. 

As  evening  drew  on,  the  gale  increased,  and 
Stephanie,  lying  in  her  cabin,  could  hear  the  great 


A  Question  of  Trust  399 

waves  breaking  over  the  deck  with  a  violence  that 
grew  more  awful  with  every  moment.  Her  nerves 
began  to  give  way  under  the  strain.  It  was  a  long 
while  since  Pierre  had  been  near  her,  and  the 
loneliness  appalled  her. 

She  could  endure  it  no  longer  at  last,  and  arose 
with  a  wild  idea  of  going  on  deck.  The  narrow 
walls  of  her  cabin  had  become  unendurable. 

With  difficulty,  grabbing  at  first  one  thing,  then 
another  for  support,  she  made  her  way  to  the 
saloon.  The  place  was  empty,  but  a  single  lamp 
burned  steadily  by  the  door  that  led  to  the  com- 
panion, and  guided  her  halting  steps. 

The  floor  was  at  a  steep  upward  angle  when  she 
started,  but  before  she  had  accomplished  half  the 
distance  it  plunged  suddenly  downwards,  and  she 
was  flung  forward  against  the  table.  Bruised  and 
frightened,  she  dragged  herself  up,  reached  the 
farther  door  at  a  run,  only  to  fall  once  more  against 
it. 

Here  she  lay  for  a  little,  half-stunned,  till  that 
terrible  slow  upheaval  began  again.  Then,  with  a 
sharp  effort,  she  recalled  her  scattered  senses  and 
struggled  up,  clinging  to  the  handle.  Slowly  she 
mounted,  slowly,  slowly,  till  her  feet  began  to  slip 
down  that  awful  slant.  Then  at  the  last  moment, 
when  she  thought  she  must  fall  headlong,  there 
came  that  fearful  plunge  again,  and  she  knew  that 
the  yacht  was  deep  in  the  trough  of  some  gigantic 
wave. 

The  loneliness  was  terrible.     It  seemed  like  the 


400  The  Swindler 

forerunner  of  annihilation.  She  felt  that  whatever 
the  danger  on  deck,  it  must  be  easier  to  face  than 
this  fearful  solitude.  And  so  at  last,  in  a  brief  lull, 
she  opened  the  door. 

A  great  swirl  of  wind  and  water  dashed  dorm 
upon  her  on  the  instant.  The  lamp  behind  her 
flickered  and  went  out,  but  there  was  another  at 
the  head  of  the  steps  to  light  her  halting  progress, 
and,  clinging  with  both  hands  to  the  rail,  she  began 
to  ascend. 

The  uproar  was  deafening.  It  deprived  her  of 
the  power  to  think.  But  she  no  longer  felt  afraid. 
She  found  this  limbo  of  howling  desolation  infin- 
itely preferable  to  the  awful  loneliness  of  her 
cabin.  Slowly  and  with  difficulty  she  made  her 
way. 

She  had  nearly  reached  the  top  when  a  man's 
figure  in  streaming  oilskins  sprang  suddenly  into 
the  opening.  Above  the  storm  she  heard  a  hoarse 
yell  of  warning  or  of  anger,  she  knew  not  which, 
and  the  next  instant  Pierre  was  beside  her,  holding 
her  imprisoned  against  the  hand-rail  to  which  she 
clung. 

She  stood  up  and  faced  him,  still  gripping  the 
rail. 

"Take  me  on  deck ! "  she  cried  to  him.  "I  shall 
not  be  afraid. " 

She  had  flung  her  cloak  about  her,  but  the  hood 
had  blown  back  from  her  head,  and  her  hair  hung 
loose.  Pierre  looked  at  her  in  stern  silence,  hold- 
ing her  fast.  She  fancied  he  was  displeased  with 


A  Question  of  Trust  401 

her  for  leaving  the  cabin,  and  she  reiterated  her 
earnest  request  that  he  would  suffer  her  to  come  up 
just  for  a  little  to  breathe  the  fresh  air. 

"It  is  so  horrible  below,"  she  told  him.  "It 
frightens  me." 

Pierre  was  frowning  heavily. 

"  Do  you  think  you  would  not  be  my  first  care?  " 
he  demanded,  bracing  himself  as  the  vessel  plunged 
to  support  her  with  greater  security. 

She  did  not  answer.  There  was  a  touch  of 
ferocity  in  the  question  that  silenced  her.  The 
pitching  of  the  yacht  threw  her  against  him  the 
next  moment,  and  her  feet  slipped  from  beneath 
her. 

Unconsciously  almost  she  turned  and  clung  to 
the  arms  that  held  her  up.  They  tightened  about 
her  to  a  grip  that  made  her  gasp  for  breath.  He 
lifted  her  back  to  the  foothold  she  had  lost.  His 
face  was  more  grimly  set  than  she  had  ever 
seen  it. 

She  wondered  if  he  was  secretly  afraid.  For 
they  seemed  to  be  sinking  down,  down,  down  into 
the  depths  of  destruction,  and  only  his  close  hold- 
ing kept  her  where  she  was. 

She  thought  that  they  were  going  straight  to 
the  bottom,  and  involuntarily  her  clinging  hands 
held  faster.  Involuntarily,  too,  she  raised  her  eyes 
to  his,  seeking,  as  the  human  soul  is  bound  to 
seek,  for  human  comradeship  in  face  of  mortal 
danger. 

But  the  next  instant  she  knew  that  no  thought 


402  The  Swindler 

of  danger  was  in  his  mind,  or  if  it  existed  it  was 
obscured  by  something  infinitely  greater. 

His  eyes  saw  her  and  her  only.  The  fierce  flame 
of  his  passion  blazed  down  upon  her,  searing  its 
terrible  way  to  her  soul,  dazzling  her,  hypnotising 
her,  till  she  could  see  nought  else,  could  feel  nought 
but  the  burning  intensity  of  the  fire  that  had 
kindled  so  suddenly  about  her. 

A  dart  of  wild  dismay  went  through  her  as  keen 
as  physical  pain,  but  in  a  moment  it  was  gone. 
For  though  he  held  her  caught  against  his  breast 
and  covered  her  face  with  kisses  that  seemed  to 
scorch  her,  it  was  not  fear  that  she  felt  so  much  as 
a  gasping  wonder  that  she  was  unafraid. 

IX 

When  Pierre  let  her  go,  she  fell,  half-fainting, 
against  the  rail,  and  must  have  sunk  at  his  feet 
had  he  not  sharply  stooped  and  lifted  her.  Profit- 
ing by  a  brief  lull  in  the  tempest,  he  bore  her  down 
the  steps  and  into  the  dark  saloon.  She  lay  quite 
passive  in  his  arms,  dazed,  exhausted,  but  still 
curiously  devoid  of  fear. 

He  laid  her  upon  a  cushioned  locker  by  the  wall, 
and  relighted  the  lamp.  Then,  in  utter  silence,  he 
carried  her  to  her  cabin  beyond,  and  left  her  there. 
She  had  a  single  glimpse  of  his  face  as  he  turned 
away,  and  it  seemed  to  her  that  she  had  looked 
upon  the  face  of  a  man  in  torture.  He  went  away 
without  a  word,  and  she  was  left  alone. 


A  Question  of  Trust  403 

And  so  for  hours  she  lay,  unmindful  of  the  storm, 
regardless  utterly  of  aught  that  happened,  lying 
with  wide  eyes  and  burning  cheeks,  conscious 
only  of  that  ever-growing  wonder  that  was  not 
fear. 

At  dawn  the  wind  abated  and  the  yacht  began  to 
pitch  less.  When  the  sun  had  been  up  for  a  few 
hours,  the  gale  of  the  night  was  a  thing  of  the  past, 
and  only  the  white-capped  waves  were  left  as  a 
laughing  reminder  of  the  storm  that  had  passed 
over. 

The  day  was  brilliant,  and  Stephanie  arose  at 
length  with  a  feeling  that  she  must  go  up  into  the 
sunshine  and  face  the  future.  The  thought  of 
meeting  Pierre  even  could  not  ultimately  detain 
her  below,  though  it  kept  her  there  considerably 
longer  than  usual.  After  all,  was  she  not  bound 
to  meet  him?  Of  what  use  was  it  to  shirk  the 
inevitable? 

But  when  she  finally  entered  the  saloon,  he  was 
not  there.  The  table  was  laid  for  breakfast,  and  a 
sailor  was  at  hand  to  serve  her.  But  of  Pierre 
there  was  no  sign.  He  evidently  had  no  intention 
of  joining  her. 

She  made  no  inquiry  for  him,  but  as  soon  as  the 
meal  was  over  she  took  her  cloak  and  prepared  to 
go  on  deck.  With  nervous  haste  she  passed  the 
scene  of  the  previous  night's  encounter.  She  al- 
most expected  to  find  Pierre  waiting  for  her  at  the 
top  of  the  companion,  but  she  looked  for  him  in 
vain.  And  even  when  she  finally  stepped  upon 


404  The  Swindler 

the  deck  and  crossed  to  the  rail  that  she  might 
search  the  whole  length  of  the  yacht,  she  could 
not  discover  him. 

A  vague  uneasiness  began  to  trouble  her.  The 
suspense  was  hard  to  bear.  She  longed  to  meet 
him  and  have  done  with  it. 

But  she  longed  in  vain.  All  through  the  sunny 
hours  of  the  morning  she  sat  or  paced  in  solitude. 
No  one  came  near  her  till  her  breakfast  attendant 
appeared  with  another  meal. 

By  the  end  of  the  afternoon  she  was  thoroughly 
miserable.  She  longed  intensely  to  inquire  for  the 
yacht's  master,  yet  could  not  bring  herself  to  do  so. 
Eventually  it  began  to  rain,  and  she  went  below 
and  sat  in  the  saloon,  trying,  quite  ineffectually,  to 
ease  her  torment  of  suspense  with  a  book.  But 
she  comprehended  nothing  of  what  she  read,  and 
when  the  young  cabin  steward  appeared  again  to 
set  the  dinner  she  looked  up  in  desperation. 

She  was  on  the  point  of  questioning  him  as  to  his 
master's  whereabouts;  the  question,  indeed,  was 
already  half  uttered,  when  her  eyes  went  beyond 
him  and  she  broke  off  short. 

Pierre  himself  was  quietly  entering  through  the 
companion  door. 

He  bowed  to  her  in  his  abrupt  way,  and  signed  to 
the  lad  to  continue  his  task. 

"He  understands  no  English,"  he  said.  "You 
do  not  object  to  his  presence?" 

She  replied  in  the  negative,  though  in  her  heart 
she  wished  he  had  dismissed  him.  She  could  not 


A  Question  of  Trust  405 

meet  his  eyes  before  a  third  person.  It  added  ten- 
fold to  her  embarrassment. 

But  when  he  seated  himself  near  her,  she  did 
venture  a  fleeting  glance  at  him,  and  was  amazed 
unspeakably  by  what  she  saw.  For  his  face  was 
haggard  and  drawn  like  the  face  of  a  sick  man,  and 
every  hint  of  arrogance  was  gone  from  his  bearing. 
He  looked  beaten. 

He  began  to  speak  at  once,  jerkily,  unnaturally, 
almost  as  if  he  also  were  embarrassed.  "I  have 
something  to  say  to  you,"  he  said,  "which  I  beg 
you  will  hear  with  patience.  It  concerns  your 
future — and  mine." 

The  strangeness  of  his  manner,  his  obvious 
dejection,  the  amazing  humility  of  his  address, 
combined  to  endue  Stephanie  with  a  composure 
she  had  scarcely  hoped  to  attain. 

She  found  herself  able  to  look  at  him  quite 
steadily,  and  did  so.  It  was  he  who — for  the  first 
time  in  her  recollection — avoided  her  eyes. 

"What  is  it,  Monsieur  Dumaresq?"  she  asked 
quietly. 

His  hands  were  gripped  upon  the  arms  of  his 
chair.  He  seemed  to  be  holding  himself  there  by 
force. 

"Just  this,"  he  said.  "I  find  that  your  esti- 
mate is  after  all  the  correct  one.  You  have  always 
regarded  me  as  a  blackguard,  and  a  blackguard  I 
am.  I  am  not  here  to  apologise  for  it,  simply  to 
acknowledge  my  mistake,  for,  strange  as  it  will 
seem  to  you,  I  took  myself  for  something  different. 


406  The  Swindler 

At  least  when  I  gave  you  my  word  I  thought  I  was 
capable  of  keeping  it.  Well,  it  is  broken,  and,  that 
being  so,  I  can  no  longer  hold  you  to  yours.  Do 
you  understand,  Mademoiselle  Stephanie?  You 
are  a  free  woman." 

For  an  instant  he  looked  at  her,  and  an  odd  thrill 
of  pity  ran  through  her  for  his  humiliation. 

She  said  nothing.  She  had  no  words  in  which  to 
express  herself.  Moreover,  her  eyes  were  suddenly 
full  of  unaccountable  tears.  She  could  not  have 
trusted  her  voice. 

After  a  moment  he  resumed.  "There  is  only 
one  thing  left  to  say.  In  two  days  we  shall  be  in 
British  waters.  I  will  land  you  wherever  you  wish . 
But  you  shall  not  go  from  me  to  earn  your  own 
living.  You  will  accept — you  shall  accept" — she 
heard  the  stubborn  note  she  had  come  to  know  so 
well  in  his  voice — "sufficient  from  me  to  make  you 
independent  for  the  rest  of  your  life.  Yes,  from 
me,  mademoiselle ! "  He  looked  her  straight  in  the 
eyes  with  something  of  his  old  arrogance.  "You 
can  refuse,  of  course.  No  doubt  you  will  refuse. 
But  I  can  compel  you.  If  you  will  not  have  it  as  a 
gift,  you  shall  have  it  as — a  bequest. " 

He  ceased,  but  he  continued  to  sit  with  his  eyes 
upon  her,  ready,  she  knew,  to  beat  down  any  and 
every  objection  she  might  raise. 

She  did  not  speak.  She  was  for  the  moment  too 
much  surprised  for  speech;  but  as  his  meaning 
dawned  upon  her,  something  that  was  greater 
than  either  surprise  or  pity  took  possession  of  her, 


A  Question  of  Trust  407 

holding  her  silent.  She  only,  after  several  mo- 
ments, rose  and  stood  with  her  face  turned  from 
him,  watching  through  the  porthole  the  waves 
that  leaped  by,  all  green  and  amber,  in  the  light 
of  sunset. 

"You  understand  me  clearly,  Mademoiselle 
Stephanie?"  he  asked  at  length,  in  a  voice  that 
came  harshly  through  the  silence. 

She  moved  slightly,  but  she  did  not  turn. 

"I  have  never  understood  you,  monsieur,"  she 
made  answer,  her  voice  very  low. 

He  jerked  his  shoulders  impatiently. 

"At  least  you  understand  me  on  this  point, "  he 
said  curtly. 

She  was  silent.    At  length: 
•    "But  you  do  not  understand  me, "  she  said. 

"Better  than  you  fancy,  mademoiselle,"  he 
answered  bitterly.  "I  do  not  think  your  feelings 
where  I  am  concerned  have  ever  been  very  com- 
plicated. " 

Again  slightly  she  moved  without  looking  round- 

"I  wish  you  would  tell  your  man  to  go,"  she 
said. 

1 '  Mademoiselle  ? ' '  There  was  a  note  of  surprise 
in  the  query. 

"Tell  him  to  go!"  she  reiterated,  with  nervous 
vehemence. 

There  fell  an  abrupt  silence.  Then  she  heard 
an  imperious  snap  of  the  fingers  from  Pierre, 
followed  instantly  by  the  steward's  retiring  foot- 
steps. 


408  The  Swindler 

She  waited  till  she  heard  them  no  longer,  then 
slowly  she  turned.  Pierre  had  not  moved  from  his 
chair.  He  was  gripping  the  arms  as  before.  She 
stood  with  her  back  to  the  light,  thankful  for  the 
dimness  that  obscured  her  face. 

"I — I  have  something  to  say  to  you,  monsieur, " 
she  said. 

"I  am  listening,  mademoiselle,"  he  responded 
briefly,  not  raising  his  eyes. 

"Ah,  but  you  must  help  me,"  she  said,  and  her 
voice  shook  a  little.  "It — it  is  no  easy  thing  that 
I  have  to  sa3r. " 

He  made  a  fierce  movement  of  unrest. 

"How  can  I  help  you?  I  have  given  you  your 
freedom.  What  more  can  I  do?" 

"You  can  spare  me  a  moment's  kindness,"  she 
answered  gently.  "You  may  be  angry  with  your- 
self, but  you  need  not  be  angry  with  me  also. " 

"I  am  not  angry  with  you,"  he  responded  half 
sullenly.  "But  I  can  bear  no  trifling,  I  warn  you. 
I  am  not  my  own  master.  If  you  wish  to  secure 
yourself  from  further  insult,  you  will  be  wise  to 
leave  me  alone." 

"And  if  not?"  she  questioned  slowly.  "If — for 
instance — I  do  not  feel  myself  insulted  by  what 
happened  last  night?" 

He  glanced  up  at  that  so  suddenly  that  she  felt  as 
if  something  pierced  her. 

"Then,"  he  rejoined  harshly,  "you  are  a  very 
strange  woman,  Mademoiselle  Stephanie. " 

"  I  begin  to  think  I  am, "  she  said,  with  a  rather 


A  Question  of  Trust  409 

piteous  smile.  "Yet,  for  all  that,  I  will  not  be 
trifled  with  either.  A  compact  such  as  ours  can 
only  be  cancelled  by  mutual  consent.  I  think  you 
are  rather  inclined  to  forget  that. " 

"Meaning?"  said  Pierre  abruptly. 

She  drew  a  sharp  breath.  Her  heart  was  beat- 
ing very  fast. 

"Meaning, "  she  said,  "meaning  that  I  do  not — 
and  I  will  not — agree  to  your  proposal;  that  if  I 
accept  my  freedom  from  you,  it  will  be  because  you 
force  me  to  do  so,  and  I  will  take  nothing  else — do 
you  hear? — nothing  else,  either  as  a  gift  or  as  a 
bequest.  You  may  compel  me  to  accept  my  free- 
dom— against  my  will ;  but  nothing  else,  I  swear — I 
swear!" 

Her  voice  broke  suddenly.  She  pressed  her 
hands  against  her  throat,  striving  to  control  her 
agitation.  But  she  might  as  well  have  striven  to 
contend  with  the  previous  night's  storm;  for  it 
shook  her,  from  head  to  foot  it  shook  her,  as  a  tree 
is  shaken  by  the  tempest. 

As  for  Pierre,  before  her  words  were  fairly  ut- 
tered he  had  leapt  to  his  feet.  His  hands  were 
clenched.  He  looked  almost  as  if  he  would  strike 
her. 

"What  do  you  mean?  "  he  thundered. 

She  could  not  answer,  but  still  she  did  not  flinch. 
She  only  threw  out  her  hands  and  set  them  against 
his  breast,  holding  him  from  her.  Whether  or  not 
her  eyes  spoke  for  her  she  never  knew,  but  he 
became  suddenly  rigid  at  her  touch,  standing 


410  The  Swindler 

motionless,  waiting  for  her  with  a  patience  she 
found  well-nigh  incredible. 

"Tell  me,"  he  said  at  last,  and  in  his  voice 
restraint  and  passion  were  strangely  mingled, 
"what  is  it  you  are  trying  to  make  me  under- 
stand? In  Heaven's  name  don't  be  afraid!" 

"I  am  not,"  she  whispered  back  breathlessly, 
"believe  me,  I  am  not.  But,  oh,  Pierre,  it's  so 
hard  for  a  woman  to  tell  a  man  what  is  in  her  heart 
when — when  she  doesn't  even  know  that  he  cares 
to  hear. " 

"Stephanie!"  he  said.  He  unclenched  his 
hands,  and  slowly,  very  slowly,  took  her  quiver- 
ing wrists.  His  eyes  would  have  searched  hers, 
but  she  was  looking  at  him  no  longer.  Her  head 
was  bent.  She  was  crying  softly,  like  a  child  that 
has  been  frightened. 

"Stephanie!"  he  said  again. 

She  made  a  little  movement  towards  him,  hesi- 
tated a  moment,  then  went  close  and  hid  her  face 
against  his  breast. 

"Oh,  do  make  it  easy  for  me!"  she  entreated 
brokenly.  ' '  Do — do  try  to  understand ! ' ' 

His  arms  closed  about  her.  He  held  her  tensely 
against  his  heart,  so  that  she  heard  the  wild  tumult 
of  its  beating.  But  he  said  nothing  whatever. 
He  waited  for  her  still. 

And  so  at  last  she  found  strength  to  turn  her  face 
a  little  upwards  and  whisper  his  name. 

"Pierre!"  And  then,  with  more  assurance, 
"Pierre,  it  is  true  I  haven't  much  to  offer  you. 


A  Question  of  Trust  411 

But  such  as  it  is — such  as  it  is — and  you  asked 
for  it  once,  remember — will  you  not  take 
it?" 

"Meaning?"  he  said  again,  and  his  voice  was 
hoarse  and  low.  It  seemed  to  come  through 
closed  lips. 

"Meaning,"  she  answered  him  quickly  and  pas- 
sionately, "that  revolutionist  as  you  have  been, 
tyrant  as  you  are,  you  have  managed  somehow  to 
bind  me  to  you.  Oh,  I  was  a  fool — a  fool — not  to 
marry  you  long  ago  at  Maritas  even  though  I  hated 
you.  I  might  have  known  that  you  would  conquer 
me  in  the  end. " 

"Has  it  come  to  that?"  said  Pierre,  and  there 
was  a  queer  break  in  his  voice  that  might  have 
been  laughter.  "And  have  you  never  asked 
yourself  what  made  me  a  revolutionist — and  a 
tyrant?" 

"Never,"  she  murmured. 

"Must  I  tell  you?"  he  said.  "Will  you  believe 
me  if  I  do?" 

She  turned  her  face  fully  to  him,  no  longer  fear- 
ing to  meet  that  piercing  scrutiny  before  which 
she  had  so  often  quailed.  "Was  it  for  my  sake?" 
she  said. 

He  met  her  look  with  eyes  that  gleamed  as  steel 
gleams  in  red  firelight. 

"How  else  could  I  have  saved  you?"  he  said. 
"How  else  could  I  have  been  in  time?" 

"Oh,  but  you  should  have  told  me!"  she  said. 
"You  should  have  told  me!" 


412  The  Swindler 

"And  if  I  had,"  said  Pierre,  "would  you  have 
hated  me  less?  Do  you  hate  me  the  less  now  that 
you  know  it?" 

She  was  silent. 

"Tell  me,  Stephanie,"  he  persisted. 

Her  eyes  fell  before  his. 

"Have  I  ever  hated  you?"  she  said,  her  voice 
very  low. 

"If  I  did  not  make  you  hate  me  last  night, "  he 
said,  "then  you  never  have." 

"And  I  never  shall,"  she  supplemented  under 
her  breath. 

"That,"  said  Pierre,  "is  another  matter.  You 
forget  that  I  am  a  blackguard. " 

Again  she  heard  in  his  voice  that  sound  that 
might  have  been  laughter.  It  thrilled  her  strangely, 
seeming  in  some  fashion  to  convey  a  message  that 
was  beyond  words.  She  turned  in  his  arms,  re- 
sponding instinctively,  and  clung  closely  to 
him. 

"I  forget  everything,"  she  told  him  very  ear- 
nestly, "except  that  to-morrow — or  the  next  day 
— you  will  be — my  husband. " 

His  arms  grew  tense  about  her.  She  felt  his 
breathing  quicken. 

"Be  careful!"  he  muttered.  "Be  careful! 
Remember,  I  am  not  to  be  trusted. " 

But  she  answered  him  with  that  laughter 
that  is  without  fear  and  more  intimate  than 
speech. 

"All  that  is  over,"  she  said,  and  lifted  her  face 


A  Question  of  Trust  4*3 

to  his.  And  then,  more  softly,  in  a  voice  that 
quivered  and  broke,  "I  trust  you  with  my  whole 
heart.  And  Pierre — my  Pierre — you  will  never 
again — kiss  me — against  my  will!" 


Where  the  Heart  Is 

course,  I  know  that  a  quiet,  well-meanin' 
fool  like  myself  hasn't  much  of  a  chance 
with  women,  but  I  just  thought  I'd  give  you  the 
opportunity  of  refusin'  me,  and  then  we  should 
know  where  we  were." 

It  was  leisurely  uttered,  and  without  any  hint  of 
agitation.  The  speaker  was  lying  on  his  back  at 
the  end  of  a  long,  green  lawn.  His  hat  was  over 
the  upper  part  of  his  face,  leaving  only  his  mouth 
visible.  It  was  a  singularly  kindly  mouth.  Some 
critics  called  it  weak,  though  there  was  no  sign  of 
nervousness  about  it.  The  clean  lips  made  their 
statement  without  faltering,  and  without  apparent 
effort,  and,  having  spoken,  relaxed  into  a  faint 
smile  that  was  pleasantly  devoid  of  self-conscious- 
ness. 

The  girl  at  whose  side  he  lay  listened  with  a 
slight  frown  between  her  eyes.  She  was  quivering 
inwardly  with  embarrassment,  but  she  would  have 
died  sooner  than  have  betrayed  it.  The  shyest 
child  found  it  hard  to  be  shy  with  Tots  Waring. 
His  full  name  was  Tottenham,  but  nobody  dreamed 
of  using  it.  From  his  cradle  onwards  he  had  been 

414 


Where  the  Heart  Is  415 

Tots  to  all  who  knew  him.  His  proposal  was 
followed  by  a  very  decided  pause.  Then,  still 
frowning,  the  girl  spoke. 

"Is  it  a  joke?" 

"Never  made  a  joke  in  my  life, "  said  Tots. 

"Then  why  don't  you  do  it  properly?" 

There  was  a  decided  touch  of  irritation  in  the 
question.  The  girl  was  leaning  slightly  forward, 
her  hands  clasped  round  her  knee.  Her  black 
brows  looked  decidedly  uncompromising,  and 
there  was  a  faintly  contemptuous  twist  about  her 
upper  lip. 

"Don't  be  vexed!"  pleaded  Tots.  "I  suppose 
you  know  by  experience  how  these  things  are 
managed,  but  I  don't.  You  see,  it's  my  first 
attempt." 

Unwillingly,  as  it  were  in  spite  of  itself,  the  con- 
temptuous curve  became  a  very  small  smile.  The 
girl's  dark  eyes  dwelt  for  several  seconds  upon  that 
portion  of  her  suitor's  countenance  that  was  visi- 
ble under  the  linen  hat.  There  was  a  wonderful 
serenity  about  the  mouth  and  chin  she  studied. 
They  did  not  look  in  the  least  as  if  their  owner  were 
taking  either  himself  or  her  seriously.  Her  own 
lips  tightened  a  little,  and  a  sudden  gleam  shot  up 
behind  her  black  lashes — a  gleam  that  had  in  it  an 
elusive  glint  of  malice.  She  suffered  her  eyes  to 
pass  beyond  him  and  to  rest  upon  a  distant  line  of 
firs.  The  man  stretched  out  beside  her  remained 
motionless. 

"Why,"  she  said  at  last,  with  slight  hesitation, 


416  The  Swindler 

"should  you  take  it  for  granted  that  I  should 
refuse  you?" 

"Eh?"  said  Tots.  He  stirred  languidly,  and 
removed  the  hat  from  his  face,  but  he  still  main- 
tained his  easy  attitude.  He  had  heavy-lidded 
eyes,  upon  the  colour  of  which  most  people  dis- 
agreed— eyes  that  never  appeared  critical,  and  yet 
were  somehow  not  wholly  in  keeping  with  the 
kindly,  half-whimsical  mouth.  "I'm  not  takin'  it 
for  granted, "  he  said.  "  I  only  think  it  likely.  You 
see,  all  I  have  to  go  upon  is  this :  Every  one  here- 
abouts is  gettin'  married  or  engaged,  except  you 
and  me.  That,  of  course,  is  all  right  for  them,  but 
it  isn't  precisely  excitin'  for  us.  I  thought  it 
might  be  more  fun  for  both  of  us  if  we  did  the 
same.  At  least,  I  thought  I'd  find  out  your  opin- 
ion about  it,  and  act  accordin'ly.  If  we  don't  see 
alike  about  it,  of  course,  there's  no  more  to  be 
said.  We'll  just  go  on  as  we  were  before,  and 
hope  that  somethin'  else  nice  will  turn  up 
soon. " 

"To  relieve  our  mutual  boredom!"  The  girl's 
laugh  sounded  rather  hard.  "Don't  you  think," 
she  asked,  after  a  moment,  "that  we  should  bore 
each  other  even  worse  if  we  got  engaged?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know!"  Tots  laughed  too— an 
easy,  tolerant  laugh.  "Could  but  try,  eh?"  he 
suggested.  "I'm  tired  of  this  everlastin*  lookin' 
on." 

"So  am  I — horribly  tired."  The  girl  rose 
suddenly,  with  a  movement  curiously  vehement. 


Where  the  Heart  Is  417 

"But  I  shouldn't  have  thought  you'd  care,"  she 
said,  with  a  touch  of  bitterness.  "I  should  have 
thought  a  bovine  existence  suited  you. " 

Tots  sat  up  deliberately  and  put  on  his  hat.  His 
manner  betrayed  no  resentment. 

"Really?"  he  said,  with  his  pleasant  smile. 
"You  see,  one  never  knows." 

He  reached  up  a  hand  to  her,  and,  wondering  a 
little  at  herself,  she  gave  him  her  own  to  assist  him 
to  rise. 

He  got  to  his  feet  and  stood  before  her — a  loose- 
limbed,  awkward  figure  that  towered  above  her, 
making  her  feel  rather  small. 

"It's  done,  then,  is  it?"  he  questioned,  still 
keeping  her  hand  in  his. 

She  looked  up  at  him  with  a  nervous  laugh. 
Secretly  she  was  wondering  how  far  he  was  going  to 
carry  the  joke. 

"Why,  of  course, "  she  said.  "  Can  you  imagine 
any  sane  woman  refusing  such  a  magnificent 
offer?" 

Though  she  suffered  that  ring  of  mockery  in  her 
voice,  she  was  still  thinking  as  she  spoke  that  it 
would  serve  him  right  if  she  frightened  him  well 
by  letting  him  imagine  that  she  was  taking  him 
seriously. 

"Good!"  said  Tots,  in  the  tone  of  one  well 
pleased  with  his  bargain.  "It  shall  be  my  busi- 
ness to  see  that  you  do  not  regret  it. " 

And  with  the  words  he  drew  her  hand  through 
his  arm,  laughing  back  at  her  with  baffling  com- 
27 


4i  8  The  Swindler 

placence,  and  led  her  down  the  long  lawn  with  the 
air  of  one  who  had  taken  possession. 

•          •••••• 

Ruth  Carey  had  been  accustomed  to  fend  for 
herself  nearly  all  her  life.  Her  lot  had  been  cast 
in  a  very  narrow  groove,  and  it  had  not  contained  a 
single  gleam  of  romance  to  make  it  beautiful.  The 
whole  of  her  early  girlhood  had  been  spent  buried 
in  a  country  vicarage,  utterly  out  of  touch  with  all 
the  rest  of  the  world.  Here  she  had  1  ved  with  her 
grandfather,  leading  a  wild  and  free  existence, 
wholly  independent  of  society,  hewing,  as  it  were, 
a  way  for  herself  in  a  desert  that  was  very  empty 
and  almost  unthinkably  barren. 

Then,  when  she  was  eight-and- twenty,  a  silent, 
curiously  undeveloped  woman,  the  inevitable 
change  had  come.  Her  grandfather  had  died,  and 
she  had  gone  out  at  last  beyond  the  sky-line  of  her 
desert  into  the  crowded  thoroughfares  of  men. 

The  gay  crowd  of  cousins  wi'h  whom  she  made 
her  home  found  her  unattractive,  and  took  no 
special  pains  to  discover  further.  They  were  all 
younger  than  she  was,  and  full  to  the  brim  of  their 
own  various  interests.  Of  the  five  girls,  three 
were  already  engaged,  and  one  was  on  the  eve  of 
marriage. 

It  was  at  this  juncture  that  Tots  had  lounged 
into  Ruth's  consideration  and  proposed  himself  as 
a  candidate  for  her  favour. 

Tots  was  a  familiar  friend  of  the  family.  Every 
one  liked  him  in  a  tolerant,  joking  sort  of  way.  No 


Where  the  Heart  Is  419 

one  took  him  seriously.  He  was  to  act  as  best 
man  at  the  forthcoming  wedding,  being  a  near 
friend  and  the  host  of  the  bridegroom. 

Uniformly  kind  to  man  and  beast,  he  had  made 
himself  lazily  pleasant  to  the  unattractive  cousin. 
Circumstance  had  thrown  them  a  good  deal  to- 
gether, and  he  had  not  quarrelled  with  circum- 
stance. He  had  acquiesced  with  a  smile. 

He  made  it  appear  in  some  fashion  absurd  that 
they  should  not  at  least  be  friends,  and  then, 
having  gained  that  much,  he  astounded  her  by 
proposing  to  her.  It  was  a  preposterous  situation. 
Having  at  length  freed  herself  from  him,  she 
escaped  to  the  house  to  review  it  with  burning 
cheeks.  It  was  nothing  but  a  joke,  of  course — of 
course,  however  he  might  repudiate  the  fact,  and 
she  resented  it  with  all  her  might.  She  would 
teach  him  that  such  jokes  were  not  to  be  played 
upon  her  with  impunity.  She  had  no  one  to  de- 
fend her  from  this  species  of  insult.  She  would 
defend  herself.  She  would  fool  him  as  he  sought 
to  fool  her. 

But  there  was  a  yet  more  painful  ordeal  in  store 
for  her  that  night  in  the  billiard-room,  had  she  but 
known  it.  The  morrow's  bridegroom,  Fred  Dan- 
vers,  having  failed  to  execute  an  easy  shot,  some 
one  accused  him  of  possessing  shaky  nerves. 

"You'll  never  get  through  to-morrow  if  you 
can't  do  an  easy  thing  like  that, "  was  the  laughing 
remark. 

Tots  looked  up. 


420  The  Swindler 

"Oh,  rot!  The  bridegroom  has  no  business  to 
suffer  with  the  jumps.  That's  the  best  man's 
privilege.  He  does  all  the  work,  and  has  all  the 
responsibility.  Why,  I'm  shakin'  in  my  shoes 
whenever  I  think  of  to-morrow,  but  if  it  were  my 
own  weddin'  I  shouldn't  turn  a  hair." 

Young  Danvers  guffawed  at  this. 

"Bet  you'll  turn  the  colour  of  this  table  when 
the  time  comes,  if  it  ever  does  come,  which  I 
doubt!" 

"Why?"  questioned  Tots. 

Danvers  laughed  again,  enjoying  the  joke.  Tots 
was  always  more  or  less  of  a  butt  to  his 
friends. 

"  In  the  first  place,  you'd  never  have  the  courage 
or  the  energy  to  propose.  In  the  second,  no  girl 
would  ever  take  you  seriously.  In  the  third — " 

He  broke  off,  struck  silent  by  a  wholly  unex- 
pected display  of  energy  on  the  part  of  Tots,  who 
had  suddenly  hurled  a  piece  of  chalk  at  him  from 
the  other  end  of  the  room.  It  hit  him  smartly 
on  the  shoulder,  leaving  a  white  patch  to  testify 
to  the  excellence  of  Tots's  aim. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Tots  mildly.  "But 
you  really  shouldn't  talk  such  rot,  particularly  in 
the  presence  of  my  fiancee." 

He  turned  round  to  Ruth,  who  was  shrinking 
into  a  corner  behind  him,  and  with  a  courtly 
gesture  drew  her  forward. 

"In  the  first  place,"  he  said,  addressing  the 
assembled  company  with  a  good-humoured  smile, 


Where  the  Heart  Is  421 

"  I  had  the  courage  and  the  energy  to  propose  only 
this  afternoon.  In  the  second  place,  this  lady  did 
me  the  inestimable  favour  of  takin'  me  seriously. 
And  in  the  third  place,  we're  goin*  to  get  married 
as  soon  as  possible. " 

In  the  astounded  silence  that  followed  these 
announcements,  he  stooped,  with  no  exaggeration 
of  reverence,  and  kissed  the  icy,  trembling  hand  he 
held. 

•  •  •  •  •  •  • 

Ruth  never  knew  afterwards  how  she  came 
through  those  terrible  moments.  She  was  as  one 
horror-stricken  into  acquiescence.  She  scarcely 
heard  the  nightmare  buzz  of  congratulation  all 
about  her.  The  only  thing  of  which  she  was  viv- 
idly conscious,  over  and  above  her  dumb  anguish 
of  consternation,  was  the  fast  grip  of  Tots's  hand. 
It  seemed  to  hold  her  up,  to  sustain  her,  while 
the  very  soul  of  her  was  ready  to  faint  with 
dismay. 

She  did  not  even  remember  later  how  she 
effected  her  escape  at  last,  but  she  had  a  vague 
impression  that  Tots  managed  it  for  her.  It  was 
all  very  dreadful  and  incomprehensible.  She  felt 
as  if  she  were  suddenly  caught  in  a  trap  from  which 
there  could  never  be  any  escape.  And  she  was 
terrified  beyond  all  reason. 

All  the  night  she  lay  awake,  turning  the  matter 
over  and  over,  but  in  every  respect  it  presented  to 
her  a  problem  too  complicated  for  her  solution. 
When  morning  came  she  was  tired  out  physically 


422  The  Swindler 

and  mentally,  conscious  only  of  an  ardent  desire  to 
flee  from  her  perplexities. 

Her  cousin's  wedding  occupied  the  minds  of  all, 
and  she  spent  the  earlier  hours  in  comparative 
peace  in  the  bustle  of  preparation.  She  saw 
nothing  of  Tots,  and  she  hoped  his  responsibilities 
would  keep  him  too  busy  to  spare  her  any  of  his 
attention. 

Vain  hope !  When  she  went  to  her  room  to  don 
her  bridesmaid's  dress,  she  found  a  small  parcel 
awaiting  her.  With  a  sinking  heart,  she  opened  it, 
a  jeweller's  box  with  a  strip  of  paper  wound 
about  it.  The  paper  contained  a  message  in  four 
words:  "With  love  from  Tots." 

A  wild  tumult  arose  within  her,  and  her  fingers 
shook  so  that  she  could  scarcely  remove  the  lid  of 
the  box.  Succeeding  at  length,  she  stood  motion- 
less, staring  with  wide,  scared  eyes  at  the  ring  that 
lay  shining  in  the  sunlight,  as  though  she  beheld 
some  evil  charm.  The  diamonds  flashed  in  her 
eyes  and  dazzled  her,  making  her  see  nothing  but 
tiny  pin-points  of  intolerable  light.  Her  heart 
thumped  and  raced  as  though  it  would  choke  her. 
Unconsciously  she  gasped  for  breath.  That  ring 
was  to  her  another  bar  in  the  door  of  her  prison- 
house. 

At  an  urgent  call  from  one  of  her  cousins,  she 
started  and  almost  threw  the  box,  with  its  con- 
tents, into  a  drawer.  Feverishly  she  began  to 
dress.  It  was  much  later  than  she  had  realised. 
When  she  appeared  in  the  hall  with  the  other 


Where  the  Heart  Is  423 

bridesmaids,  some  one  remarked  upon  her  deathly 
pallor,  but  she  shrank  away  behind  the  bride, 
anxious  only  to  screen  herself  from  observation. 
She  would  have  given  all  she  had  to  have  avoided 
Tots  just  then,  but  there  was  no  escape  for  her. 
He  was  in  the  church-porch  as  she  entered  it, 
though  there  was  no  time  for  more  than  a  hurried 
hand-clasp. 

The  church  was  very  hot,  and  the  crush  of 
guests  great.  She  listened  to  the  marriage  service 
as  a  prisoner  might  listen  to  his  death  sentence. 
The  irrevocability  of  it  was  anguish  to  her  tor- 
tured imagination.  And  all  the  while  she  was 
conscious — vividly,  terribly  conscious — of  Tots's 
presence,  Tots's  inscrutable  scrutiny,  Tots's  tri- 
umph of  possession.  He  would  never  let  her  go, 
she  felt.  She  was  his  beyond  all  dispute.  He  had 
asked,  and  she  had  bestowed,  not  understanding 
what  she  was  doing. 

There  could  be  no  withdrawal  now.  She  could 
not  picture  herself  asking  for  it,  and  she  was  sure 
he  would  not  grant  it  if  she  did.  He  would  only 
laugh. 

There  fell  a  sudden  silence  in  the  church — 
a  curious,  unnatural  silence.  It  seemed  to  be 
growing  very  dark,  and  she  wondered,  panting,  if 
it  were  the  darkness  that  so  smothered  her.  With 
a  sharp  movement  she  lifted  her  face,  gasping  as 
a  half-drowned  person  gasps.  And  everywhere 
above,  around  her,  were  tiny,  dancing  points  of  light. 


424  The  Swindler 

"That's  better,"  said  Tots.  "Don't  be  fright- 
ened. It's  all  right. " 

He  rubbed  her  cheek  softly,  reassuringly,  and 
then  fell  to  chafing  her  weak  hands.  Ruth  lay 
back  against  a  grave-mound  and  stared  at  him. 
He  was  wonderfully  gentle  with  her,  almost  like  a 
woman.  On  her  other  side  one  of  her  fellow- 
bridesmaids  was  stooping  over  her,  holding  a  glass 
of  water. 

"You  fainted  from  the  heat,"  she  explained. 
"But  you  are  better  now.  I  shouldn't  go  back  if 
I  were  you.  It's  just  over." 

With  a  sense  of  shame  Ruth  withdrew  her  hand 
from  Tots. 

"I'm  sorry,"  she  murmured. 

"Nonsense!"  said  Tots  kindly.  "Nobody's 
blamin'  you,  my  child.  It's  this  infernal 
heat.  You  stay  quietly  here  for  a  bit.  I 
must  go  back  and  see  that  Danvers  signs  his 
name  all  right.  But  I'll  come  and  fetch  you  after- 
wards." 

He  departed,  and  Ruth  suddenly  realised  an 
urgent  need  for  solitude.  She  turned  to  her 
cousin. 

"Do  please  go!  I  shall  be  all  right.  It  is  cool 
and  shady  here.  And  they  will  be  looking  for  you 
in  the  vestry.  Please  go!  I  will  wait  till — Tots 
comes  back." 

Her  cousin  demurred  a  little,  but  it  was  obvious 
that  her  inclination  fell  in  with  Ruth's  request,  and 
it  was  also  quite  obvious  that  Ruth  did  not  want 


Where  the  Heart  Is  425 

her.  So,  after  some  persuasion,  she  yielded  and 
went. 

During  the  interval  that  followed,  Ruth  sat  in 
the  quiet  corner  just  out  of  sight  of  the  vestry  door, 
bracing  herself  to  meet  Tots  and  implore  him  to  set 
her  free.  It  was  a  bad  quarter  of  an  hour  for  her, 
and  when,  at  the  end  of  it,  Tots  came,  she  looked 
on  the  verge  of  fainting  again. 

"Sorry  I  couldn't  come  before,"  said  Tots. 
"But  my  responsibilities  are  over  now,  thank  the 
gods.  I  suppose,  now,  you  didn't  have  time  for 
anything  to  eat  before  you  came?" 

This  was  the  actual  truth.  Ruth  owned  it  with 
a  feeling  of  guilt.  And  suddenly  she  found  that 
she  could  not  speak  then.  There  was  something 
that  made  it  impossible.  Perhaps  it  was  the  loud 
clash  of  the  bells  overhead. 

"I  am  very  sorry,"  she  said  again. 

Tots  smiled. 

"You  must  manage  better  at  our  own  weddin', " 
he  said.  "There's  nothin'  like  fortifyin'  yourself 
with  a  good  substantial  meal  for  an  ordeal  of  this 
sort.  You're  feelin'  better,  eh?  Take  my 
arm." 

She  obeyed  him,  still  quivering  with  her  fruitless 
effort  to  tell  him  of  the  miserable  deception  she  had 
unintentionally  practised  upon  him.  She  had  a 
feeling  that,  if  she  made  him  angry,  the  world 
itself  would  stop.  Surely  no  one  had  ever  found 
Tots  formidable  before. 

At  the  touch  of  his  hand  upon  hers,  she  started. 


426  The  Swindler 

"What's  wrong  with  it?"  queried  Tots  softly. 
"Doesn't  it  fit?" 

She  glanced  up  in  confusion.  She  was  trembling 
so  that  she  could  scarcely  stand.  He  slipped  his 
arm  about  her  reassuringly,  comfortably. 

"Never  mind.  We  must  look  at  it  together. 
I'll  take  it  back  if  it  isn't  right.  We'll  go 
through  the  church,  shall  we?  It's  the  shortest 
way." 

He  led  her,  unresisting,  back  into  the  building, 
and  the  clamour  of  the  bells  merged  into  the  swell- 
ing chords  of  the  organ.  As  they  walked  side  by 
side  down  the  empty  aisle  the  strains  of  Mendels- 
sohn's Wedding  March  transformed  their  progress 
into  a  triumphant  procession,  and  Tots  looked 
down  into  the  girl's  face  with  a  smile.  .  .  . 

There  was  no  help  for  it.  She  could  not  tell  him 
to  his  face.  Gradually  the  conviction  dawned 
upon  her  through'another  night  of  racking  thought. 
And  there  was  only  one  thing  left  to  do.  She  must 

go- 

Soon  after  sunrise  she  was  up,  and  writing  a  note 
to  her  aunt.  She  experienced  small  difficulty  in 
this.  It  was  quite  simple  to  express  her  thanks  for 
all  the  kindness  shown  her,  and  to  explain  that  she 
had  decided  to  pay  a  visit  to  her  old  home.  She 
scarcely  touched  upon  the  suddenness  of  her  de- 
parture. The  Careys  were  all  of  them  sudden  in 
their  ways.  This  move  of  hers  would  hardly  strike 
them  as  extraordinary.  She  was,  moreover,  so 
much  a  stranger  among  them  that  it  did  not  seem 


Where  the  Heart  Is  427 

to  matter  in  the  face  of  her  great  need  what  they 
thought. 

But  a  note  to  Tots  was  a  different  matter  alto- 
gether, and  she  sat  for  nearly  two  hours  motionless 
above  a  sheet  of  paper,  considering.  In  the  end 
she  was  again  overcome  by  the  almost  physical 
impossibility  of  putting  the  intolerable  situation 
into  bald  words.  Simply,  she  felt  utterly  incap- 
able of  dealing  with  it.  He  had  told  her  he  was 
not  joking.  She  had  believed  the  contrary  in 
spite  of  this  assurance.  And  she  had  dared  to 
trifle  with  him,  to  treat  his  offer  as  a  jest. 

How  could  she  explain,  how  apologise,  for  such  a 
mistake  as  this?  The  thing  was  beyond  words, 
and  at  length  she  gave  up  the  attempt  in  despair. 
She  would  send  him  back  his  ring  in  silence,  and 
perhaps  he  would  understand.  At  least,  he  would 
know  that  she  was  unworthy  of  that  which  he  had 
offered  her.  She  took  the  ring  from  its  hiding- 
place,  and  once  more  the  sunlight  flashed  upon  its 
stones.  For  a  space  she  stood  gazing  fixedly,  as 
one  fascinated.  And  then,  suddenly,  inexplicably, 
her  eyes  filled  with  tears,  and  she  packed  up  the 
little  box  hurriedly  with  fingers  that  trembled. 

She  directed  the  parcel  to  Tots,  and  put  it  aside 
with  the  intention  of  posting  it  herself.  A  tiny 
strip  of  paper  on  the  floor  attracted  her  attention 
as  she  turned.  She  picked  it  up.  It  was  only 
Tots's  simple  message  in  four  short  words.  She 
caught  her  breath  sharply  as  she  slipped  it  into  her 
dress. 


428  The  Swindler 

Home!  Ruth  Carey  stood  in  the  little  inn- 
parlour  that  smelt  of  honeysuckle  and  stale  to- 
bacco, and  looked  across  the  village  street.  It 
looked  even  narrower  than  in  the  old  days,  and  the 
pond  on  the  green  had  shrunk  to  a  mere  dark 
puddle.  The  old  grey  church  on  the  hill  looked 
like  a  child's  toy,  and  the  quiet  that  brooded 
everywhere  was  the  quiet  of  stagnation.  An 
ancient  dog  was  limping  down  the  road — the  only 
living  thing  in  sight. 

The  girl  turned  from  the  window  with  a  heavy 
sigh.  She  was  conscious  of  a  great  emptiness,  of  a 
craving  too  intense  to  be  silenced,  a  feverish  long- 
ing that  had  in  it  the  elements  of  a  bitter  despair. 
She  had  fled  from  captivity  to  the  desert.  But  she 
had  not  found  relief.  She  had  escaped  indeed. 
But  she  was  like  to  perish  of  starvation  in  the 
wilderness. 

She  slept  that  night  from  sheer  weariness,  but, 
waking  in  the  early  morning,  she  lay  for  hours, 
listening  to  the  cheery  pipings  of  the  birds,  and 
wondering  what  she  should  do  with  her  life.  For 
there  was  no  one  belonging  to  her  in  a  truly  inti- 
mate sense.  She  had  no  near  ties.  There  was  no 
one  who  really  wanted  her,  except —  The  burning 
colour  rushed  up  to  her  temples.  No ;  even  he  did 
not  want  her  now.  And  again  the  loneliness 
and  the  emptiness  seemed  more  than  she  could 
bear. 

Dressing,  she  told  herself  suddenly  and  passion- 
ately that  her  home-coming  had  been  a  miserable 


Where  the  Heart  Is  429 

farce,  a  sham,  and  a  delusion.  And  she  called 
bitterly  to  mind  words  that  she  had  once  either 
read  or  heard:  "Where  the  heart  is,  there  is 
home. " 

The  scent  of  honeysuckle  and  stale  tobacco  was 
mingled  with  that  of  fried  bacon  as  she  opened  the 
door  of  the  inn-parlour.  It  rushed  out  to  greet 
her  in  a  nauseating  wave,  and  she  nearly  shut  the 
door  again  in  disgust.  But  the  sight  of  an  immense 
bunch  of  roses  waiting  for  her  on  the  table 
checked  the  impulse.  She  went  forward  into 
the  room  and  picked  it  up,  burying  her  face  in  its 
fragrance. 

There  was  a  tiny  strip  of  paper  twisted  about 
one  of  the  stalks  which  she  did  not  at  first  perceive. 
When  she  did,  she  unfolded  it,  wondering.  Four 
words  met  her  eyes,  written  in  minute  characters, 
and  it  was  as  if  a  meteor  had  flamed  suddenly 
across  her  sky.  They  were  words  that,  curiously, 
had  never  ceased  to  ring  in  her  brain  since  the 
moment  she  had  first  read  them:  "With  love  from 
Tots." 

•  •••••• 

Fully  five  minutes  passed  before  Ruth  crossed 
the  room  to  the  honeysuckle-craped  window,  the 
roses  pressed  against  her  thumping  heart.  Out- 
side, an  ancient  wooden  bench  that  sagged  du- 
biously in  the  middle  stood  against  a  crumbling 
stone  wall.  It  was  a  bench  greatly  favoured  by 
aged  labourers  in  the  summer  evenings,  but  this 
morning  it  had  but  one  occupant — a  loose-knit, 


430  The  Swindler 

lounging  figure  with  a  straw  hat  drawn  well  down 
over  the  eyes,  and  a  pipe  thrust  between  the 
teeth. 

As  Ruth  gazed  upon  this  negligent  apparition,  it 
suddenly  moved,  and  the  next  instant  it  stood  up 
in  the  sunshine  and  faced  her,  hat  in  one  hand, 
pipe  in  the  other. 

"Mornin'!"  said  Tots.  "Got  somethin'  nice 
for  breakfast?"  His  brown  face  smiled  imper- 
turbably  upon  her.  He  looked  pleased  to  see  her, 
but  not  extravagantly  so. 

Ruth  fell  back  a  step  from  the  window,  her  roses 
clutched  fast  against  her.  She  was  for  the  mo- 
ment speechless. 

Tots  continued  to  smile  sociably. 

"Nice,  quiet  little  place — this,"  he  said. 
"There's  a  touch  of  the  antediluvian  about  it 
that  I  like.  Good  idea  of  yours,  comin'  here. 
No  one  to  get  in  the  way.  It  won't  be  disturbin' 
you  if  I  sit  on  the  window-sill  while  you  have 
your  breakfast?" 

Ruth  experienced  a  sudden,  hysterical  desire  to 
laugh.  He  was  beyond  her,  this  man — utterly, 
hopelessly  beyond  her. 

She  sat  down  at  the  table,  not  with  the  idea  of 
eating  anything,  but  from  a  sense  of  sheer  help- 
lessness. Tots  knocked  the  ashes  from  his  pipe 
and  took  his  seat  on  the  window-sill.  He  did  not 
seem  to  be  aware  of  any  strain  in  the  situation. 

After  a  pause,  during  which  Ruth  sat  motion- 
less, he  turned  a  little  to  survey  her. 


Where  the  Heart  Is  431 

"Not  begun  yet?"  he  queried. 

She  looked  back  at  him  with  a  species  of  desper- 
ate courage. 

This  sort  of  thing  could  not  go  on.  She  must 
be  brave  for  once.  Unconsciously  she  was  still 
gripping  the  roses  with  both  hands. 

"Mr.  Waring — "  she  began. 

"Tots,"  he  substituted  gently. 

"Well— Tots,"  she  repeated  unwillingly,  "I— I 
want  to  ask  you  something. " 

"Fire  away!"  said  Tots. 

"I  want  to  know — I  want  to  know — "  She 
stumbled  again,  and  broke  off  in  distress. 

Tots  wheeled  round  as  he  sat,  and  brought  his 
long  legs  into  the  room. 

"  Please  don't,"  she  begged  hastily.  "  I — I  want 
you  inside. " 

He  did  not  retire  again,  nor  did  he  advance. 

"You  want  to  know — "  he  said. 

With  a  stupendous  effort  she  faced  and  answered 
him. 

"I  want  to  know  what  made  you  ask  me  to 
marry  you." 

Tots  did  not  at  once  reply.  He  sat  on  his  perch 
with  his  back  to  the  light,  and  contemplated 
her. 

"I  should  have  thought  a  clever  little  girl 
like  you  might  have  guessed  that,"  he  said  at 
length. 

This  was  intolerable.  She  felt  her  courage  ebb. 
ing  fast. 


432  The  Swindler 

"I'm  not  clever,"  she  said,  a  desperate  quiver 
in  her  voice,  "and  I — I'm  not  good  at  guessing 
riddles." 

In  the  silence  that  followed,  she  wondered  wildly 
if  she  had  made  him  angry  at  last.  Then  he  spoke 
in  his  usual  good-natured  drawl,  and  her  heart  gave 
a  great  throb  of  relief. 

"I  think  you're  chaffin',"  he  said. 

"I'm  not,"  she  assured  him  feverishly.  "I'm 
not  indeed.  I  always  mean  what  I  say.  That 
is " 

"  Of  course, "  said  Tots,  with  kindly  reassurance. 
"I  knew  that.  Why,  my  dear  child,  that's  just 
what  made  me  do  it.  I  took  a  likin'  to  you  for 
that  very  reason." 

She  stared  at  him  speechlessly.  There  was 
absolutely  nothing  left  to  say.  He  really  cared  for 
her,  it  seemed.  He  really  cared!  And  she?  With 
a  gasp  of  despair  she  abandoned  the  unequal  strife, 
and  hid  her  face  from  him  in  an  agony  of  tears. 
Why,  why,  why,  had  this  knowledge  come  to  her  so 
late? 

He  was  by  her  side  in  an  instant,  stroking, 
soothing,  comforting  her,  as  though  she  had  been 
a  child.  When  she  partially  recovered  herself  her 
head  was  against  his  shoulder,  and  he  was  drying 
her  eyes  clumsily  but  tenderly  with  his  own  hand- 
kerchief. 

"There!  there!"  he  said.  "Don't  cry  any 
more.  Some  one's  been  troublin'  you.  Just  let 
me  know  who  it  is,  and  I'll  wring  his  neck. " 


Where  the  Heart  Is  433 

She  raised  herself  weakly.  The  desire  to  laugh 
had  quite  left  her.  She  leaned  her  head  in  her 
hands,  and  forced  down  her  tears. 

"You — don't  understand,"  she  said  at  last. 

"Don't  I?"  said  Tots.  "Why,  I  thought  we 
were  gettin*  on  so  well." 

"I  know.  I  know."  She  was  making  a  su- 
preme effort.  It  must  be  now  or  never.  "You 
have  been  very  good  to  me.  But — but — we  never 
have  got  on  really.  It  was  all  a  mistake. " 

"What  do  you  mean?"  said  Tots. 

She  fancied  his  tone  had  changed  a  little.  It 
sounded  somehow  brisker  than  usual.  He  was 
angry,  whispered  her  panting  heart,  and  if  she 
angered  him — ah,  how  should  she  bear  it?  But 
the  next  instant  a  big,  consoling  hand  pressed  her 
shoulder,  and  the  misgiving  passed. 

"Don't  tremble,  like  this,  little  one,"  he  said. 
"You  can't  be  afraid  of  me.  No  one  ever  was 
before.  There  has  been  a  mistake,  you  say. 
What  was  it?  Can't  you  bring  yourself  to  tell 
me?" 

There  was  something  in  his  voice  that  moved  her 
strangely,  kindling  that  in  her  which  turned  her 
passionate  regret  to  tragedy.  Her  head  sank  a 
little  lower  in  her  hands.  How  could  she  tell 
him?  How  could  she?  Yet  he  must  know,  even 
if — even  if  it  transformed  his  love  to  hatred.  The 
bare  thought  hurt  her  intolerably.  He  was  the 
only  friend  she  had.  And  yet — and  yet — he  must 
know.  She  swallowed  a  desperate  sob,  and  spoke. 
28 


434  The  Swindler 

"I've  been  deceiving  you.  I've  trifled  with 
you.  When  you  proposed  to  me — I  didn't  know 
— didn't  realise — you  were  in  earnest.  No  one 
had  ever  proposed  to  me  before.  I  didn't  under- 
stand. And  when  I  accepted  you — I  wasn't  in 
earnest  either.  I — I  was  just  spiteful.  After- 
wards— when  I  found  out — it  was  too  late.  I 
couldn't  tell  you  then. " 

The  confession  went  haltingly  out  into  silence. 
She  dared  not  raise  her  head.  Moreover,  she  \vas 
weeping,  and  she  did  not  want  him  to  know  it. 

There  was  a  motionless  pause.  Then  at  length 
the  hand  on  her  shoulder  began  to  rub  up  and 
down,  comfortingly,  caressingly. 

"Don't  cry!"  said  Tots.  "Hadn't  you  better 
have  some  breakfast?  That  bacon  must  be  gettin' 
pretty  beastly." 

He  was  not  angry,  then.  That  was  her  first 
thought.  And  then  again  carne  that  insane  desire 
to  laugh.  After  all,  why  was  she  crying?  Tots 
apparently  saw  no  cause  for  discomfiture. 

With  an  effort  she  controlled  herself. 

"No;  I'm  not  hungry, "  she  said.  "Won't  you 
— please — settle  this  matter  now?" 

"Only  stop  cryin',"  said  Tots.  "You  have? 
I  say,  what  a  fib!  Well,  I  suppose  I  must  take 
your  word  for  it.  Now,  little  one,  what  is  it  you 
want  me  to  do?" 

She  raised  her  head  in  sheer  astonishment. 

No,  there  was  no  trace  of  anger  in  his  face, 
neither  did  it  betray  any  disappointment.  Com- 


Where  the  Heart  Is  435 

placent,  kindly,  quizzical,  his  eyes  met  hers,  and 
her  heart  gave  a  sudden,  inexplicable  bound. 

"I — thought  you  would  understand,"  she  fal- 
tered. "We — we  can't  go  on  being  engaged,  can 
we?" 

"No,"  said  Tots  with  instant  decision. 
"Shouldn't  dream  of  borin'  you  to  that  extent. 
I've  had  enough  of  it  myself  as  well."  He  ut- 
tered his  pleasant,  careless  laugh.  "I  really  don't 
wonder  that  my  courtin'  made  you  feel  spiteful," 
he  said.  "I'm  glad  you're  in  favour  of  cuttin'  it 
too." 

Ruth  stared  at  him  blankly.  Was  he  laughing 
at  her?  Was  this  to  be  her  punishment? 

He  had  straightened  himself  and  was  smiling 
down  at  her,  his  head  within  a  foot  of  the  bulging 
ceiling. 

"Tell  you  what!"  he  suddenly  said.  "You 
eat  some  breakfast  like  a  good  girl,  and  then — I'll 
show  you  somethin'.  Perhaps  you'll  let  me  join 
you?" 

He  did  not  wait  for  her  consent,  but  sat  down  at 
the  table.  Ruth  rose.  He  was  putting  her  off,  she 
felt,  and  she  could  not  bear  it.  It  had  cost  her 
more  than  he  would  ever  realise  to  tell  him  the 
truth. 

"I'm  very  sorry,"  she  said  unsteadily,  "but — 
I  don't  think  we  quite  understand  each  other  yet. 
You  know" — her  voice  failed  suddenly,  but  she 
struggled  to  recover  it,  and  succeeded — "I  am  not 
clever — like  other  women.  I  want  plain  speaking, 


436  The  Swindler 

not  hints.  I  want  to  be  told — in  so  many  words 
— that  you  have  set  me  free. " 

"Why  should  I  tell  you  what  isn't  true?"  said 
Tots.  He  stretched  out  his  hand  to  her  without 
rising.  "I  haven't  set  you  free,"  he  said,  "and 
I'm  not  goin'  to.  Is  that  plain  enough?" 

He  caught  her  hand  with  the  words  and  drew  her 
gently  towards  him.  "I'll  tell  you  what  I  am 
goin'  to  do,"  he  said.  "  Come  quite  close.  I 
want  to  whisper.  You  needn't  be  anxious.  This 
chair  is  strong  enough  for  two." 

Gentle  as  he  was  in  speech  and  action,  there  was 
something  irresistible  about  him  at  that  moment — 
something  to  which  Ruth  yielded  because  there 
was  no  alternative.  She  went  to  him  trembling, 
and  he  drew  her  down  beside  him,  holding  her 
every  instant  closer  to  him. 

"Still  frightened?"  he  asked  her  very  tenderly. 
"Still  wantin'  to  run  away?" 

She  hid  her  face  against  him  dumbly.  She  could 
not  answer  him  in  words. 

He  went  on  speaking,  softly,  soothingly,  as  if  she 
had  been  a  child. 

"People  make  a  ridiculous  fuss  about  gettin' 
married, "  he  said.  "It's  the  fashion  nowadays  to 
make  a  sort  of  Punch  and  Judy  show  of  it  for  all 
the  people  on,e  ever  met,  and  a  few  hundreds 
besides,  to  come  and  gape  at.  But  you  and  I  are 
not  goin'  to  do  that.  We're  goin'  to  show  some 
sense,  and  get  married  on  the  quiet,  in  a  little 
village  church  I  know  of;  and  then  we're  goin'  into 


Where  the  Heart  Is  437 

retirement  for  a  time,  and  when  we  come  out  we 
shall  be  old  married  people,  and  no  one  will  want  to 
pelt  us  with  shoes  and  things.  Now  I've  got  a 
weddin'-ring  in  my  pocket,  and  I  hope  it'll  fit 
better  than  the  other.  And  I've  got  a  special 
license  too.  It's  a  nice,  fine  mornin',  isn't  it? 
And  that's  all  we  want.  Let's  have  some  break- 
fast, and  then  go  and  get  married!" 

Ruth  raised  her  head  with  a  gasp.  Unexpected 
as  was  the  whole  turn  of  events,  she  was  utterly 
unprepared  for  this  astounding  suggestion. 

"But— but—  "  she  faltered. 

And  then  for  the  first  time  she  saw  Tots's  eyes, 
opened  wide  and  looking  at  her  with  an  expression 
there  was  no  mistaking.  He  took  her  face  between 
his  hands. 

"Yes,  I  know  all  that,"  he  said,  speaking  below 
his  breath.  "But  it  doesn't  count,  dear — believe 
me,  it  doesn't.  The  only  thing  that  is  really  indis- 
pensable, we  have.  So  why  not — make  that  do?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  she  gasped.  "I  don't 
know. " 

She  was  quivering  as  a  harp  quivers  under  the 
fingers  of  one  who  knows,  and  her  whole  soul  was 
thrilling  to  the  wild,  tumultuous  music  that  he  had 
called  into  being  there.  It  was  almost  more  than 
she  could  bear — this  miracle  that  had  been  wrought 
upon  her.  Tots's  eyes  still  held  her  own,  and  it  was 
as  if  thereby  he  showed  her  all  that  was  best  in 
life. 

"Why  not?"  he  said  again  very  softly. 


438  The  Swindler 

And  suddenly  she  realised  overwhelmingly  how 
close  his  lips  were  to  her  own.  In  that  moment 
she  also  knew  that  greater  thing  which  is  immortal. 
And  so  she  answered  him  at  last  in  his  own  words, 
with  a  rush  of  passionate  willingness  that  swept 
away  all  fear: 

"Why  not?" 

As  their  lips  met,  it  seemed  to  her  that  her  eyes 
were  opened  for  the  first  time  in  her  life ;  and  every- 
where— above,  around,  within  her — were  living 
sparks,  dazzling,  wonderful,  unquenchable,  of  the 
Eternal  Flame. 


THE    END 


JAMES   OLIVER  CURWOOD'S 

STORIES   OF   ADVENTURE 

May  br  had  wherever  booKs  are  sold.     Ask  for  Grossat  and  Dunlap's  list 

KAZAN 

The  tale  of  a  "  quarter- strain  wolf  and  three-quarters  husky  " 
torn  between  the  call  of  the  human  and  his  wild  mate. 

BAREE,  SON  OF  KAZAN 

The  story  of  the  son  of  the  blind  Grey  Wolf  and  the  gallant 
part  he  played  in  the  lives  of  a  man  and  a  woman. 

THE  COURAGE  OF  CAPTAIN  PLUM 

The  story  of  the  King  of  Beaver  Island,  a  Mormon  colony, 
and  his  battle  with  Captain  Plum. 
THE  DANGER  TRAIL 

A  tale  of  snow,  of  love,  of  Indian  vengeance,  and  a  mystery 
of  the  North. 

THE  HUNTED  WOMAN 

A  tale  of  the  "end  of  the  line,"  and  of  a  great  fight  in  the 
"valley  of  gold"  for  a  woman. 

THE  FLOWER  OF  THE  NORTH 

The  story  of  Fort  o*  God,  where  the  wild  flavor  of  the  wilder- 
ness is  blended  with  the  courtly  atmosphere  of  France. 
THE  GRIZZLY  KING 

The  story  of  Thor,  the  big  grizzly  who  lived  in  a  valley  where 
man  had  never  come. 

ISOBEL 

A  love  story  of  the  Far  North. 
THE  WOLF  HUNTERS 

A  thrilling  tale  of  adventure  in  the  Canadian  wilderness. 
THE  GOLD  HUNTERS 

The  story  of  adventure  in  the  Hudson  Bay  wilds. 
THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE 

Filled  with  exciting  incfilents  in  the  land  of  strong  men  and 
women. 

BACK  TO  GOD'S  COUNTRY 

A  thrilling  story  of  the  Far  North.     The  great  Photoplay  was 
made  from  this  book. 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,        PUBLISHERS,         NEW  YORK 


NOVELS  OF  FRONTIER  LIFE  BY 

WILLIAM   MACLEOD   RAINE 


Hay  be  had  wherever  books  are  sold.        Ask  for  Grosset  &  Dunlap's  list 

MAVERICKS 

A  talc  of  the  western  frontier,  where  the  "  rustler  "  abounds.    One  of  the  sweetest 
1  ove  stories  ever  told. 

A  TEXAS  RANGER 

How  a  member  of  the  border  police  saved  the  life  of  an  innocent  man,  followed  a 
f  ugitive  to  Wyoming,  and  then  passed  through  deadly  peril  to  ultimate  happiness. 

WYOMING 

In  this  vivid  story  the  author  brings  out  the  turbid  life  of  the  frontier  with  all  its 
engaging  dash  and  vigor. 

RIDGWAY  OF  MONTANA 

The  »cene  is  laid  in  the  mining  centers  of  Montana,  where  politics  and  mining  in- 
dustries are  the  religion  of  the  country. 

BUCKY  O'CONNOR 

Every  chapter  teems  with  wholesome,  stirring  adventures,  replete  with  the  H^.hi.^ 
spirit  of  the  border. 
CROOKED  TRAILS  AND  STRAIGHT 

A  story  of  Arizona ;  of  swift-riding  men  and  daring  outlaws ;  of  a  bitter  feud  be- 
tween cattle-men  and  sheep-herders. 

BRAND  BLOTTERS 

A  story  of  the  turbid  life  of  the  frontier  with  a  charming  love  interest  runniac 
through  its  page*. 

STEVE  YEAGER 

A  story  brimful  of  excitement,  with  emough  gun-play  and  adventure  to  suit  anyone. 
A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  DONS 

A  Western  story  of  romance  and  adventure,  comprising  a  vivacious  and  stirring 
tale. 
THE  HIGHGRADER 

A  breezy,  pleasant  and  amusing  love  story  of  Western  mining  life. 
THE  PIRATE  OF  PANAMA 

A  tale  of  old-time  pirates  and  of  modern  love,  hate  and  adventure. 
THE  YUKON  TRAIL 

A  crisply  entertaining  love  story  in  the  land  where  might  makes  right. 
THE  VISION  SPLENDID 

In  which  two  cousins  are  contestants  for  tke  same  prize* ;  political  honors  and  the 
hand  ot  a  girl. 

THE   SHERIFF'S  SON 

The  hero  finally  conquers  both  himself  and  his  enemies  and  wins  the  love  of  a 
wonderful  girl. 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,          PUBLISHERS,  NEW  YORK 


"STORM  COUNTRY"  BOOKS  BY 

GRACE  MILLER  WHITE 

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JUDY  OF  ROGUES'  HARBOR 

Judy's  untutored  ideas  of  God,  her  love  of  wild  things, 
her  faith  in  life  are  quite  as  inspiring  as  those  of  Tess. 
Her  faith  and  sincerity  catch  at  your  heart  strings.  This 
book  has  all  of  the  mystery  and  tense  action  of  the  other 
Storm  Country  books. 

TESS  OF  THE  STORM  COUNTRY 

It  was  as  Tess,  beautiful,  wild,  impetuous,  that  Mary 
Pickford  made,  her  reputation  as  a  motion  picture  actress. 
How  love  acts  upon  a  temperament  such  as  hers — a  tem- 
perament that  makes  a  woman  an  angel  or  an  outcast,  ac- 
cording to  the  character  of  the  man  she  loves — is  the 
theme  of  the  story. 

THE  SECRET  OF  THE  STORM  COUNTRY 

The  sequel  to  "  Tess  of  the  Storm  Country,"  with  the 
same  wild  background,  with  its  half-gypsy  life  of  the  squat- 
ters— tempestuous,  passionate,  brooding.  Tess  learns  the 
"  secret "  of  her  birth  and  finds  happiness  and  love  through 
her  boundless  faith  in  life. 

FROM  THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MISSING 

A  haunting  story  with  its  scene  laid  near  the  country 
familiar  to  readers  of  "  Tess  of  the  Storm  Country." 

ROSE  O'  PARADISE 

"  Jinny  "  Singleton,  wild,  lovely,  lonely,  but  with  a  pas- 
sionate yearning  for  music,  grows  up  in  the  house  of  Lafe 
Grandoken,  a  crippled  cobbler  of  the  Storm  Country.  Her 
romance  is  full  of  power  and  glory  and  tenderness. 

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THE  NOVELS  OF 
GRACE    LIVINGSTON    HILL     LUTZ 

May  bo  had  wherever  books  are  sold.     Ask  for  Grossat  i  DunUp's  list 

THE  BEST  MAN 

Through  a  strange  series  of  adventures  a  young  man  finds 
himself  propelled  up  the  aisle  of  a  church  and  married  to  a 
strange  girl. 

A  VOICE  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

On  her  way  West  the  heroine  steps  off  by  mistake  at  a  lonely 
watertank  into  a  maze  of  thrilling  events. 

THE  ENCHANTED  BARN 

Every  member  of  the  family  will  enjoy  this  spirited  chronicle 
of  a  young  girl's  resourcefulness  and  pluck,  and  the  secret  of 
the  ' '  enchanted ' '  barn. 

THE  WITNESS 

The  fascinating  story  of  the  enormous  change  an  incident 
wrought  in  a  man's  liie. 

MARCIA  SCHUYLER 

A  picture  of  ideal  girlhood  set  in  the  time  of  full  skirts  and 
poke  bonnets. 

LO,   MICHAEL  ! 

A  story  of  unfailing  appeal  to  all  who  love  and  understand  boys. 
THE  MAN  OF  THE  DESERT 

An  intensely  moving  love  story  of  a  man  of  the  desert  and  a 
girl  of  the  East  pictured  against  the  background  of  the  Far  West. 

PHOEBE  DEANE 

A  tense  and  charming  love  story,  told  with  a  grace  and  a  fer- 
vor with  which  only  Mrs.  Lutz  could  tell  it. 

DAWN  OF  THE  MORNING 

A  romance  of  the  last  century  with  all  of  its  old-fashioned 
charm.  A  companion  volume  to  ' '  Marcia  Schuyler ' '  and 
"  Phoebe  Deane." 


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